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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23747788">Squalor Victoria</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/PunkHazard/pseuds/PunkHazard'>PunkHazard</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Kent [7]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Wolf 359 (Radio)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen, Zombie Apocalypse</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-20 22:09:04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>22,018</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23747788</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/PunkHazard/pseuds/PunkHazard</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"The good news is that the outbreak is contained!" A person with more faith and less experience with Marcus Cutter might be relieved at those words, but Warren knows this particular brand of whiplash too well to be drawn in. "The bad news is," Cutter says, audibly pouting, "the quarantine area is the whole building and you're on lockdown. That's how we contained it."</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>(one-sided &amp; mostly just very awkward), Daniel Jacobi &amp; Warren Kepler &amp; Alana Maxwell, Daniel Jacobi/Warren Kepler</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Kent [7]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1276967</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>68</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>title change again,,, to be more pretentious</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Being the head of Strategic Intelligence and not HR, Kepler did not expect, when he walked out of the cafeteria to dodge some kind of altercation between R&amp;D scientists, that the fight would continue over another hour. Nor could he have predicted that within that hour, it would have escalated to mindless biting and clawing and involved no fewer than three different departments.</p><p>Being a man who has considered numerous doomsday scenarios, he accesses the building's security cameras from his locked office to investigate instead of wandering outside himself to try and calm things down. He rules out gaseous hallucinogens first, being that he hasn't joined the fray and an airborne substance would have caught him as well. He rules out a simulation next; Warren remembers the exact sequence of events that brought him to this remote Arkansas biological research facility, and his reasons for being there.</p><p>This is hardly the first time he's dealt with an experiment gone awry, but it's impacted a rather large number of scientists rather quickly, if the footage is to be believed, and he's in the middle of hunting down blueprints to the facility when his phone buzzes with a call from Marcus Cutter.</p><p>He picks up on the second ring. "Mr. Cutter, sir."</p><p>"Warren, I <em>just</em> got word about the... developing situation at your location." If Jacobi and Maxwell think decoding their direct supervisor's moods is a minefield, they've never had to work closely with Cutter for any length of time. The man sounds just as cheerful as ever, but there's a near-imperceptible breathlessness to his words that never says anything good. "I'm mostly hearing a lot of screaming and crying," Cutter adds, "so I decided to call <em>you</em> for a detailed report." </p><p>Kepler winces.</p><p>"Actually," Cutter continues, not pausing for a breath, "I was wondering why I hadn't heard from you <em>sooner</em>, considering how much I <em>trust</em> your judgment, Warren. You are, after all, my eyes and ears on the ground!"</p><p>"I'm still investigating, sir."</p><p>Cutter drops the cheer. "Tell me what you've got."</p><p>"People are being infected by... <em>something</em> that causes them to aggressively attack any unaffected person nearby." Taking down the dates, time ranges and filenames of several relevant videos, Kepler forwards the list to Cutter. He listens for the <em>ding!</em> of the message's arrival in Cutter's inbox, and the ponderous clicking of a mouse as Cutter goes to seek out the files. He never was very handy with a computer. "They're attracted to movement," Kepler continues, summarizing his observations as succinctly as he can, "scent and sound. Whatever this is, it's spread through bites and spreading fast. People succumb in seconds to minutes."</p><p>There's a thoughtful hum from Cutter. "And where are you right now?"</p><p>"In my office, but about to make my way to the exit."</p><p>"Well, that won't work."</p><p>In the span of about four seconds, Warren runs through the entire spectrum of emotion from <em>what</em> to <em>outlived my usefulness</em> but he manages to answer with an impassive, "Mr. Cutter?"</p><p>"The good news is that the outbreak is contained!" A person with more faith and less experience with Marcus Cutter might be relieved at those words, but Warren knows this particular brand of whiplash too well to be drawn in. "The bad news is," Cutter says, audibly pouting, "the quarantine area is the whole building and you're on lockdown. That's how we contained it."</p><p>"I... understand, sir."</p><p>"As you might have guessed from this call, three of my most valuable assets are in the base. I need you to secure them." Which means, at least, that Warren's not being used for one last report and then sacrificed to the mindless infected. "Then you should be able to locate an emergency extraction point and meet the team that's on its way. I'll keep you apprised of any developing information from my end, and I expect you to do the same."</p><p>"I'll be right on it, sir. Which assets?"</p><p>"Well, the first one is you! It would be such a waste to lose an operative of <em>your</em> calibre."</p><p>Unswayed, Kepler idly notes that at least Cutter expects him to survive. "And the others?"</p><p>"Rachel Young. Second floor. She's a capable employee, but I'm sure you can imagine her skills aren't exactly the most conducive to survival in this scenario."</p><p>"I see. If there's an issue with her ability, I may not be able to--"</p><p>"I'm <em>sure</em> that keeping her safe won't be an issue for you."</p><p>Kepler pulls the phone away from his ear and covers the mouthpiece to let out a brief snarl of irritation. His subsequent "Of course not, Mr. Cutter," is delivered as meekly as he's ever said anything.</p><p>"And there's a sample in the basement that I need you to collect. It's a... catalyst, of sorts. It would be destroyed if we sterilize the building, and it's the only sample we've got, so I need you to remove it from the facility along with yourself and Rachel."</p><p>"Anything else I should pay attention to, sir?"</p><p>"Your voiceprint should be able to access the weapons cache with the passcode 'Newman'. Don't let me down, Warren."</p><p>"Wouldn't dream of it, Mr. Cutter." </p><p>"Well, then I'll just--"</p><p>"Sir?" Interrupting Cutter isn't a privilege offered to many, but Kepler's earned this one over years of loyal service and he doesn't use it lightly. Besides, it's all for the sake of completing the objectives he was given. "Formally requesting backup from Dr. Maxwell and Mr. Jacobi? I would... appreciate their expertise."</p><p>"Certainly. I won't keep you from your team, but do remember that a bit of... discretion, would be advisable!"</p><p>"Of course, Mr. Cutter."</p><p>"Well, I'll leave you to it."</p>
<hr/><p>Luckily for Warren, Cutter's office is the one just next door, and it can be remotely unlocked from the Florida facility. He waits for a brief lull in activity in the corridor outside to make his way over and lets himself into a hidden, barometrically sealed room behind a bookcase to browse an entire wall of equipment. He's changed out of his suit and into a tactical base layer when soft buzzing signals an incoming transmission through his earpiece. </p><p>A few seconds more to connect, and then a very familiar, very loud sigh rings through. </p><p>"Mr. Jacobi," Kepler says. "Good to hear your voice." </p><p>"Hey, boss," answers Jacobi, sounding very relieved that Kepler hasn't been killed in the ten minutes since he and Maxwell'd received the order to hand off any current projects and secure a comms room back in Canaveral. "We heard about your zeta scenario."</p><p>"Omega," Maxwell cuts in.</p><p>"Huh?"</p><p>"Omega's the last letter of the Greek alphabet. If we're talking <em>zombie apocalypse</em>, it has to be Omega Scenario."</p><p>"For the record," Jacobi says, "sir, I always wanted to be on your zombie apocalypse team."</p><p>"We have this under control," Kepler shoots back, only a slight warning in his tone, "the outbreak is contained. There won't be any kind of apocalypse."</p><p>"But you still got zombies."</p><p>"Omega scenario," Maxwell insists.</p><p>"Omega scenario is nuclear war, but we can always repurpose it." Shrugging on a body armor vest, Kepler checks the time on his watch. "How's the signal?"</p><p>"Five by five, sir."</p><p>Other than a soft hum of acknowledgement, Kepler says nothing else while he equips an ammunition belt with a spare magazine and takes some sort of electrified baton the wall. It's a fancy taser-club, really, and while Warren has a strong appreciation for creative interrogation techniques, the old standbys have a level of reliabilty he prefers in an emergency. Goddard Weapons development has always had a knack for combining utility with tech in practical ways. </p><p>He toes open a duffel bag and loads it up with a few more familiar selections. Rachel Young hates to get her hands dirty; she doesn't love field work the way Warren does, but she's no stranger to it. He's momentarily torn between a classic glock and some sort of bleeding-edge pulse pistol when there's a shuffle on the other end of the line and Jacobi clears his throat.</p><p>"Everything okay," he says, "sir?"</p><p>It shouldn't come as a surprise that they're worried, but Kepler internally takes a level of mild offense at it. He's gotten all of them out of far weirder and more dangerous situations without a scratch before, so why now? "Fine," he says, taking a pair of military-style cargo pants off a shelf and stepping into them. He claims another pair for Young and drops them in the bag, along with another set of boots.</p><p>Warren has to fight back the impulse to bring her gear that's half a size too large or small; causing Rachel Young a temporary inconvenience isn't worth the potential for that to trip her up and slow them down at some crucial moment, but it is a <em>very</em> strong impulse.</p><p>In the meantime, he has no point man, no physically present team. It's not the first time he's in the field alone, but three years of having Jacobi at his side have spoiled him, made him reliant on a second set of hands, eyes and ears acting as an extension of himself. It feels more like a loss than it should.</p><p>"So," Maxwell chimes in, her chair creaking as she leans back in it, "how are you and Klein doing, Jacobi?"</p><p>Warren considers that he's been silent just a bit too long-- as much as his subordinates complain about his chatter, they get nervous when he stops. Maxwell rarely asks about anyone's personal life, being reluctant to talk about her own, and while Jacobi is less reticent, he's a big fan of not making public information of his civilian life. </p><p>"It's great. He's great." Jacobi's voice is warm. Warren can hear the smile in it. "We had dinner a couple nights ago, he came over and made steak."</p><p>Maxwell shifts again, a nervous tic. "How was it?" she prompts, directing the question at Jacobi. She was probably hoping Kepler would pick up the line of conversation and continue it, but he's trying to work out the timeline for this emergency and how many packs of nutrition gel he should pack along with the weapons. </p><p>"I've had better," Jacobi answers. After all, he's been to France with Kepler; few steaks will ever hold up against ribeye caps poached in a jury-rigged sous-vide for two hours with fresh butter and rosemary, then grilled to perfection in a screaming hot cast-iron skillet. </p><p>Even better, it was their last day in Provence after they'd wrapped up a crucially sensitive assignment. Jacobi built a circulator while Kepler and Maxwell visited the local farmer's market for cheese and vegetables, a nice bottle of wine. They all got pleasantly buzzed at dinner and then talked until three in the morning with all the lights dimmed, right up until Maxwell couldn't keep her eyes open anymore and slumped into Daniel's side. Kepler had lingered for another hour, trading memories with Jacobi of their first year together. </p><p>He was back to form the next morning, manic on three hours of sleep with a flight to catch back to Canaveral and coolly shutting down any mention of the night before. As far as the reports were concerned, they were packing supplies their entire final day in France. It was the first and last time Maxwell ever saw Kepler loosen the stranglehold on his professional veneer. </p><p>"You can't compare <em>every</em> steak to the best steak you ever had," she chides gently. "That's not fair to other steaks."</p><p>"We had some wine," Daniel concedes, "and he <em>did</em> show up with a cheese plate."</p><p>"And the night was saved?" Maxwell says, and Jacobi snorts.</p><p>"But seriously," he complains, "who eats steak mid-well?"</p><p>"You did," Warren finally cuts in, pulling his belt through the loops of his pants and securing it around his hips, "until you met me."</p><p>"Again," Jacobi says, "what kind of monster gets their steak done past medium rare? We're <em>classy</em> now." </p><p>"And you, Maxwell? Seeing anybody?"</p><p>"No." When neither Kepler nor Jacobi speak, leaving her with an expectant silence, she sighs. "Dating does sound nice sometimes," she offers. Small-talk is decidedly not her wheelhouse, but Kepler's been tossing around the idea of having her in the field with them more often, and in order to do <em>that</em> she needs to be better at making distractingly inane conversation. Fortunately, her two closest colleagues are masters of it. "There's someone in accounting who keeps inviting me for lunch, but he won't like me as much if we ever got to know each other better."</p><p>"What about Novak, in Logistics?" Kepler asks. "She's been poking around R&amp;D for your number. I could pass it along."</p><p>Jacobi lets out a low, impressed whistle. "Dr. Maxwell's in high demand," he teases.</p><p>A few months of working under Kepler and Maxwell can't find it in herself to be surprised. Jacobi has a very specific group of people who enjoy his company, but Kepler's got a finger on the pulse of every department within Goddard Futuristics. He seems to actually <em>enjoy</em> office politics. "She's nice," Maxwell answers. "I think I should have a few test runs before I date someone nice."</p><p>"You're the nicest one of us," says Jacobi.</p><p>"Careful with Mackie if you ever take him up on lunch," Kepler warns. "Men lie about <em>everything</em>."</p><p>"You're both men."</p><p>"We lie constantly," Jacobi points out.</p><p>Kepler swings the bag of supplies onto his shoulder, hefting its bulk to sit comfortably at the small of his back. "I'm lying right now," he quips.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Maxwell quickly gains access to every security camera in the building down to the lobby. She plans a route to the basement while Jacobi guides Kepler through the fifth-floor corridors to the elevators. The journey is relatively painless, only two encounters with infected victims and both of them quickly incapacitated with his stun baton. Aggressive and hungry, Kepler notes, but not stronger or faster than they were originally. A quick zap to seize up their muscles and then a thwack to the back of the skull.</p><p>"Still alive," Kepler says quietly, feeling for a pulse in Dr. Kincaid's neck after he moves her prone form from in front of the elevator. The beat is shallow and rapid, but indisputably present. The chances of everyone surviving a heavy blow to the back of the head is low, but straight up murdering his co-workers won't reflect well, even if they are trying to eat him.</p><p>"That complicates things," Maxwell comments. Her mouth is set in a tight line, fingers tapping against the keys without pressing them down. Jacobi wonders if she's always nervous when she's on the cameras, and he'd just never noticed before from the other end.</p><p>"Cutter's got us checking in with him every two hours," Jacobi adds. "Am I including that in the next report?"</p><p>"I think you'll have to."</p><p>"Copy that."</p><p>"I'm starting up the elevator," says Maxwell. "One on the left has fewer occupants, but there are still four people inside."</p><p>"Infected?"</p><p>"Looks like it. One's in a security uniform. Waiting on your signal, sir."</p><p>The club whistles as Kepler swings it by the wrist strap in a tight, fast circle before he catches it again. "How do we look, Jacobi?"</p><p>"You're clear. No one coming down the hall."</p><p>"Alright, Dr. Maxwell." Stepping to the side in case anything comes barreling out of the elevator, Kepler lightly raps on the door with his baton. "Open sesame."</p>
<hr/><p>Jacobi watches Kepler shove the last scientist out of the elevator doors and duck inside, dropping his supplies to the floor. He takes a moment to deliver a brutal kick to the stomach of the security guard trying to claw his way after, and Maxwell takes that brief moment of unobstructed entryway to shut the doors.</p><p>She doesn't start the elevator again, waiting on Kepler's say-so while he inspects his bag for anything lost in the scuffle. He's breathing just a little bit harder than usual. Jacobi checks to ensure that their coms aren't active before he leans back in his seat, arms crossing behind his head and back arching as he stretches his spine and shoulders. "You ever watch 'The Raid'?" he asks.</p><p>"You made us watch it with you," Maxwell answers. </p><p>"He should take his shirt off and go full Rambo."</p><p>"Dare you to say that to his face."</p><p>Leaning forward, Jacobi thumbs the coms switch, grinning against his microphone when Maxwell bolts upright and tries to stop him. "Hey Major," he says, fending off a few frantic smacks against his upper arm (she doesn't <em>actually</em> want Kepler to murder Jacobi if he ever gets out of that facility), "can I get that next dance?"</p><p>"There were a few close calls," Maxwell comments, hitting Jacobi on the shoulder one last time.</p><p>"Nonsense, Dr. Maxwell." Kepler gives the camera a cheeky little wave and zips his duffel back up. "I had it under control."</p><p>"Weird to see you pulling your punches, boss."</p><p>"I try not to damage Goddard property."</p><p>Maxwell snorts, and Jacobi heaves another sigh. "I've been trying to convince Maxwell that you're not <em>that</em> bad a guy," he complains, "and you just undid all my work..."</p><p>Kepler laughs, soft, but just a touch ragged. On the screen, they watch him lean against the wall of the elevator as it takes him down.</p>
<hr/><p>Kepler doesn't bother knocking, just swipes his card across the reader and grins as the door unlocks for him. 'You're welcome,' Maxwell murmurs into his ear as he steps quickly inside and shuts the door. A few more infected round the corner. In the background, Warren can hear Jacobi asking her a question. "Miss Young," he says.</p><p>Young looks up, not expecting him but not particularly surprised. "Oh," she sneers. "It's <em>you</em>."</p><p>"Unfortunately for both of us," Kepler deadpans, "Mr. Cutter asked me to rendezvous with you and get us both out of this facility, along with a sample from sub-lab 8. Need your biometrics to access that floor."</p><p>Maxwell had attempted to hack that door while Kepler waited in the elevator, but its security is beefier than the office doors and it would've taken her too much time, too much attention away from more pressing matters. </p><p>Young looks back down at the papers she was processing before Kepler arrived. She idly redactes an entire paragraph before reaching for the next sheet. Sounding awfully relaxed for the situation they've both found themselves in, she hums as she crosses out a line. "Oh? You don't have permission to go down there?"</p><p>"It wasn't within my assignment parameters at this facility."</p><p>"Right." She's audibly smug now, ignoring Kepler to jot something else down while he shifts the bag onto his other shoulder. She smiles a little, making him wait. "Little above your pay grade."</p><p>"I'll have to bring that up with Mr. Cutter," he shoots back. "<em>Your</em> oversight clearly wasn't enough to keep this situation from spinning out of control."</p><p>"Oh, shut up."</p><p>She pulls back when the heavy pack slams onto the table in front of her, and Kepler roughly unzips the top to show her the assortment of weapons inside. "Take your pick."</p>
<hr/><p>Only someone as spiteful as Rachel Young could look <em>unhappy</em> about receiving the exact assortment of weapons that she's most accustomed to. She grimaces at the glock before loading it with a magazine, screwing on its silencer, then holstering it with an easy flick of her wrist. Sighs heavily at a little plasma knife as she slips it into her boot. She's already changed out of her pencil skirt, blouse and heels into the black shirt-tac pants combo Kepler had brought for her.</p><p>In their line of work, any bit of information down to weapon preferences and shoe size is something to keep under wraps lest it be used against them. Times like this, Warren can almost appreciate that maybe she <em>does</em> have a background in intelligence.</p><p>"I suppose you're taking point," she says distastefully.</p><p>"Unless you'd like to do the honors," Kepler retorts. </p><p>"No, no. Go ahead."</p><p>The chance of Rachel Young shooting him in the back of the head isn't zero, but Warren can at least count on the fact that she isn't stupid, no matter how much she dislikes him. Cutter wouldn't take kindly to his <em>assets</em> murdering each other, and no matter how much it pains them to admit it, they do work well together. Young thinks quickly on her feet, adapts easily, and doesn't need her hand held through basic SOP. They've completed multiple assignments together with minimal complications.</p><p>Part of that, Warren is sure, is because they don't care about each other nearly enough to end up in a position where betting on their mutual trust and expertise will save them. More expedient simply to <em>not fuck up</em>. </p><p>"We'll keep an eye on her for you," Maxwell whispers in his ear as Kepler pulls two packs out of the duffel and splits their supplies evenly between them. He hauls one over his shoulder and tosses the other to Young, staring impassively at her until she pulls it on with a snide remark about his lack of chivalry.</p><p>"Far be it for me to imply that you can't pull your own weight," Kepler deadpans, and he ignores the obnoxious cackling in his earpiece from Jacobi and Maxwell. Kepler, being Kepler, distributes supplies proportionally to the amount of weight each of them can bench and while that does tend to skew in the direction of himself and Jacobi carrying most of their gear, Maxwell's sure that if she could lift more than Daniel, he would take that into account. </p><p>It's just that Kepler <em>really</em> dislikes Rachel Young.</p><p>"Sub-lab 8," she confirms, packing up the documents she'd been working on and locking them into her desk drawer.</p><p>Kepler waits for her by the door, and Jacobi lets out a whistle when both of them drop smoothly into lowered stances, hands on drawn weapons. Kepler listens for a few seconds, until the all-clear from his subordinates, before lightly pressing down on the handle and slipping into the corridor with Young close behind him.</p>
<hr/><p>"Electricity can incapacitate them," Kepler says as they round the corner toward a (formerly) better-guarded, more discreet elevator, "as can drugs that suppress the nervous system. Barbiturates, benzos, Z-drugs... knocks 'em right out. Dose should take out any grown adult without killing them."</p><p>Pausing, Young turns the glock in her hand to squint at it, making a disgusted face when she finally sees the slight modifications on the barrel. "Don't tell me you gave me a glorified dart gun," she hisses.</p><p>"Latest and greatest in Goddard weapons dev."</p><p>"<em>Ugh.</em>" Sticking close to the wall, Young jabs Kepler in the ribs when he looks over hs shoulder to check their backs. "Also," she adds, "<em>stop</em> that."</p><p>"Stop <em>what</em>."</p><p>"Looking back. I have our six, just relax."</p><p>"Having you on my six is hardly a reason for me to--"</p><p>"Nine o'clock."</p><p>Kepler barely seems to turn his wrist, and there's a soft pop from the muzzle of his silenced gun. The scientist coming toward them from the open door of an office struggles to stay standing for a moment before his muscles begin to spasm and he tumbles to the floor. "As I was saying," Kepler says nevertheless turning his eyes front again, "that doesn't inspire confidence."</p><p>"Showoff," Jacobi mumbles.</p><p>"It wasn't <em>that</em> impressive," says Maxwell.</p><p>"In any case," Warren continues as he steps into the elevator, jamming the 'close' button even before Young's heels clear the entrance, "we're nearly there. Get to sub-lab 8, grab the catalyst, and get out."</p><p>"<em>Actually...</em>"</p><p>Kepler pushes the 'SUB8' button, then again when its light dims. He looks at Young expectantly, stepping aside to allow her to swipe her thumb over the biometric reader on the numberpad. "Actually?" he prompts, the pitch of his voice dipping to a low growl.</p><p>"Actually," says Young, "we need to make a stop in Sub-7. That's where my biometrics can take us."</p><p>"And what... is in Sub-7?"</p><p>"In order to reach Sub-8," Young says, tugging the elastic in her hair out and retying her ponytail while Kepler hits the appropriate button, "we'll need my biometrics, <em>plus</em> Dr. Thomson's ID card."</p><p>"Oh," says Maxwell. "I'll see if I can find his ID code."</p><p>"And you can tell your little helper not to waste time trying to hack it." A sigh, exaggeratedly drawn out. "He's also cleared for the Black Archives, so it's not in the system."</p><p>From their control room, Jacobi and Maxwell hold their breaths, their mics abruptly muted but the elevator cameras still streaming and the feed from Kepler's coms still active. If it were either of them in Rachel Young's place, Kepler would excoriate them for not keeping him in the loop, but he can't take those liberties with another department's head, nor had he gone into this with the same expectations of her. </p><p>Kepler and Young stare at each other, having already come to a stop at Sub-7 but lingering in the elevator to properly brief each other on the situation. "Thomson's office is on the third floor," says Kepler, an all-too-familiar strain in his voice-- the one that says his temper's hanging on by a thread. Even that information seems begrudgingly offered, 'need-to-know' apparently a policy that's only applied to his subordinates.</p><p>"He does most of his work in Sub-7," Young answers, sounding smug, "and he was there when things went to hell."</p><p>"And you couldn't inform me of this <em>before</em>--"</p><p>"Before you shoved a bag of gear at me and hauled me out of my office?" Young leans in, uncomfortably close to pinch Kepler's cheek. "Where's the fun in that, Warren?"</p><p>"Fine," Kepler growls, smashing the 'Open' button and backing away from the doors, "how hard could it be?"</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The elevator opens to a long, empty corridor, reinforced metal doors lining either side of it. "Your signal is getting weaker," Maxwell says as Kepler and Young proceed toward the first door on the left. "No camera access past Sub-5," she tells him, sounding worried, "and I'll probably lose you completely in Sub-8."</p><p>"There's gotta be network infrastructure down there," Jacobi mutters while Kepler takes another earpiece out of his pocket and hands it to Young. He doesn't exactly want her in his ear, but it's better than losing contact altogether if they were to be separated. "Even without cameras," Jacobi points out, "they need some way to communicate with the upper floors."</p><p>"I'm not seeing anything," Maxwell murmurs, the sound of clacking keys picking up as she searches. "Sir? Any suggestions?"</p><p>"Look for a hidden network called SK30579," Young cuts in, idly adjusting the volume on her coms. "The security's a little tricky, but--"</p><p>"I'm in! Registering coms to the new network."</p><p>Kepler covers his mouthpiece, eyes locked on Young's begrudgingly impressed (and instantly thoughtful) expression. "Don't even think about it," he hisses.</p><p>"Relax," she shoots back, "if I've got some work for Dr. Maxwell, I'm sure she wouldn't mind lending a hand. I'm not gonna steal her away."</p><p>"Not that you could," Kepler drawls.</p><p>Young reaches forward, smirking at Kepler's minute draw away from her before he shakes himself out of it and allows her to pull his hand down, away from his coms. "Oh?" she says out loud, less cautious in a sealed hallway. She brings her face close, enough that Kepler can feel her breath on his chin. "Why don't I ask? Dr. Maxwell, how do feel about moving up in Special Projects? Supervisor of your own lab, maybe?"</p><p>"Then Kelvin," Kepler cuts in, "from R&amp;D--"</p><p>"Absolutely <em>not</em>, I need him in the lab."</p><p>"Well," he says pointedly, "I need Dr. Maxwell in the field. Her contributions are indispensible."</p><p>"Aww," Maxwell coos, exclusively into his ear. "Thank you, sir." Then, into the open channel: "I appreciate the opportunity, but SI-5 is where I belong, Ms. Young."</p><p>"He's just using you as leverage," Jacobi chimes in.</p><p>"I'll take it," she shoots back.</p><p>Young huffs. "We'll see."</p><p>Kepler glances down the corridor, idly tapping his baton against his leg. Seven doors on each side, with one ominous, shadowed room at the very end. "So which one's Thomson?"</p><p>"Technically, all of them. He's the supervisor for this entire floor."</p><p>"The resolution on these cameras isn't high enough for me to read any of their IDs," Maxwell supplies. There's some more clicking from her end as she shuffles through the cameras. "But... it looks like the room down at the end is empty-- a break area. There's couches and a fridge, in case you need to rest and refuel."</p><p>"The hallway lights dim at ten on this level," Young says. "I wouldn't want to be trying anything after that."</p><p>They regard the space again, neither of them stupid enough to consider splitting up, but neither particularly eager to make a suggestion. "You a betting woman," Kepler says at last, dropping his bag to the floor and toeing it out of the way of the elevator door, "Miss Young?"</p><p>"Depends on the odds," she answers, doing the same. </p><p>"Left or right?"</p><p>"Right."</p><p>"Let's start on the right, then."</p>
<hr/><p>"Cool," Jacobi grumbles. "Awesome. Kepler's gonna hunker down with Rachel Young for the night in the middle of a zombie apocalypse. Never seen <em>that</em> in a movie before."</p><p>Maxwell leans away from the screen, a blurry image displaying the scene of carnage Kepler and Young had left in the first room on the right. It's not <em>terrible</em>, considering how much violence they're theoretically capable of inflicting, but the tools and documents strewn across the floor, the five or so scientists left unconscious and slumped across tables and in chairs, is still unnerving to see. "What do you think is gonna happen, Daniel? My money's on 'they murder each other before the sun comes up'."</p><p>An incoming hail interrupts them before Jacobi has a chance to elaborate further. "So," says Kepler, five ID cards fanned out in his hand as he turns his eyes to the closest camera, "none of these are labeled, but I think they do have NFC. Miss Young says she's never actually <em>met</em> Thomson, but we don't have time to cover how egregious of an oversight that is right now considering her clearance--"</p><p>"<em>I</em> was here to audit this lab's finances, <em>not</em> to manage HR concerns. Actually, I think <em>legal</em> has more to do with the scientists?"</p><p>"Hold the cards near your phone," Maxwell cuts in before either of them can escalate, turning her seat and rolling up to another console. "I'll decrypt their signals."</p><p>Kepler unlocks his phone and opens an app she had programmed specifically to take remote control of the device. She saves the five RFID tags, sends them to the SI server and then duly shuts down the connection from her end. "I'll need some time to decrypt and cross-reference with the Goddard personnel files," she tells him, "but it should be ready when you're done with the next room."</p><p>Maxwell is pretty sure no one else has access to Kepler's phone like that-- or at least, no one at her pay grade. Cutter probably does. And it had pained him to give it to her. </p><p>Still, after one particularly memorable assignment with a thumb drive failure (a mechanical failure, Jacobi said, after it was smashed by the very enthusiastic security guard who threw him against a filing cabinet), Maxwell in Kepler's ear for ten minutes walking him through writing a data-scraping Python script from scratch, he'd finally relinquished a tiny little bit of control if only to never again experience the sheer terror of a misplaced bracket with five minutes left on a Daniel Jacobi (TM) bomb ticking away next to him and his ballistics expert with a sprained wrist. </p><p>They were in California for that one. They went out for drinks, afterward, and then later that night Kepler had pulled her aside and handed her his phone. 'Remote access,' he'd said, something Maxwell first suggested many months ago when she first joined the team. '<em>Only</em> when I activate it, and if you go snooping, I <em>will</em> know and you <em>will</em> regret it.'</p><p>They haven't actually needed it since then, but the more time Maxwell spent in the SI-5, the more Kepler relied on her to do the small, tedious things he would've otherwise had to handle on his own, like ordering food straight from his phone just to skip the hassle of entering the company credit card again anywhere else.</p><p>The little Kepler on their screen rolls his shoulders, turns his head to speak to Young and then both of them proceed to the next door. It took them about twenty minutes to clear out the first room, mostly due to both of them taking care not to intentionally cause <em>permanent</em> damage to the scientists inside, though Young is visibly already tired of it. </p><p>"Three of them in the next room," Jacobi reports. "One by the door, one at three o'clock and one at eleven."</p><p>"Copy that." Kepler sounds almost cheerful, shouldering the door in to catch whoever's on the other side in one violent swing. Young slips in behind him, shooting one scientist across the room in the shoulder while Kepler chokes out the one closest to them. The last occupant of the room turns to them at the commotion, and lurches forward before Kepler lands a dart in their leg. They split up to rifle through the pockets of the downed scientists, then retreat from the room with their haul.</p><p>"None of the first five were Thomson," Maxwell informs them. "I'll work on the next three, but lights go down in two minutes."</p><p>Kepler exhales deeply. "You can't just turn the lights up?"</p><p>"Looks like..." Jacobi makes a frustrated sound. "They're physically throttled in the sub-levels, sir."</p><p>"Can we go straight to the--"</p><p>"Not without Thomson's card," Maxwell chimes in.</p><p>Exchanging a look with Young, Kepler shrugs. "I suppose we'll have to pick this up in the morning."</p><p>"Well, sir," Jacobi quips, "you know what they say: Invest in rest." </p><p>Young snorts, but Jacobi watches the Kepler on his screen shake his head, knowing that he'd put a familiar, wry smile on his face. "Noted, Mr. Jacobi."</p>
<hr/><p>"Okay," says Jacobi, tossing a bundle of coms equipment into a duffel bag the moment Kepler disconnects. "Ready to go."</p><p>"We have about eight hundred miles to Arkansas," Maxwell tells him, cramming bags of chips, protein bars and energy drinks into another pack, "and clearance to use the SI chopper. Should be there in about five hours, with fuel stops." Kepler would get on them for not bringing along anything more nutritious, but Kepler's also stuck in a secure compound with Rachel Young, so Maxwell's not too fussed about his opinion. </p><p>"And you counted--"</p><p>"The weight of our equipment and passengers?" Maxwell scoffs, "Please, Daniel. <em>My</em> concern is-- you can fly a chopper?"</p><p>Slinging his pack over his shoulder, Jacobi grins. "It's been a while," he says, "but yeah. Major makes me get re-certified with him every year."</p><p>"You have to renew it every year?"</p><p>"Only with Goddard." He gestures for Maxwell to hand him the bag of snacks as well, and waits for her to pack her tablet and laptop. He moves for the door, bumping it open with his hip and letting Maxwell close and lock it behind them as they head for the helipad. "There's always some new sensor or experimental function we have to be trained to deal with."</p><p>"Can <em>I</em> get certified to fly a chopper?" she asks in the elevator to the roof. "Maybe we can switch off next time."</p><p>"I mean, you know he's not gonna say no." Kepler hadn't really hinted at or pressured Maxwell to learn how to fly a chopper, figuring that he and Jacobi were more than enough for any team, but in the same way that he'd enthusiastically slotted Jacobi in for small arms practice, he'd happily sign Maxwell up for flight training. Never hurts to have more skills in the repertoire, he'd say. "You need forty hours of flight training for a state license and sixty to be cleared for company birds. Plus a yearly re-cert, and six-month physical to make sure you won't spontaneously die in the cockpit."</p><p>Maxwell frowns, internally considering her schedule while Jacobi straps in their cargo, then tosses her a headset. "Those hours might be an issue."</p><p>"No kidding." He flashes her a grin, hauling himself into the pilot's seat and waiting for Maxwell to settle into the passenger's side. "How many projects do you have going right now?"</p><p>"I don't want to talk about it," she murmurs, seatbelting herself securely in place while Jacobi runs through the checks. The cockpit is cramped, more optimized for speed and weight than for comfort, and there's a dizzying array of dials, switches and buttons in front of them that Jacobi seems well-acquainted with. He starts the propellers, one hand landing on a throttle and his foot lightly resting on a pedal beneath the dashboard.</p><p>Instead of shouting to be heard, Jacobi gives her a thumbs-up and raises his brows in a silent question. She returns the gesture, immediately grabbing for a handhold when the helicopter lifts off.</p>
<hr/><p>'Convenient' was Kepler's comment when they first stepped into the break room, pretty much exactly like every breakroom in every corporate building in the United States. It's a little cushier-- two couches, and a top-of-the-line coffee dispenser-- but an otherwise sorry affair compared to the break rooms at Goddard HQ, with their nap pods and automated pannini dispensers. Kepler looks through the fridge while Young settles at the less-lumpy couch to properly inspect the supplies Kepler had seen fit to bring her.</p><p>He's pulling the tops off two styrofoam cups of Instant Noodles and fiddling with the coffee maker to give him some hot water when a clatter of metal on cheap plastic draws his attention to Young's side of the room. She's emptied three magazines of their clips and laid out the weapons across the table. "See," she says, once she's sure she's got his attention, "Warren, this is why I never liked you. You're <em>soft</em>."</p><p>Kepler shrugs, eyeing the directions on his Instant Noodles and adding hot water to them exactly to their fill lines. He's never been called soft before. It's such a ridiculous statement that it doesn't even warrant a reaction, really. "And here I thought you were just jealous of my charm and boyish good looks," he deadpans.</p><p>"You're the highest-ranked intelligence operative at the largest tech conglomerate on earth. All Mr. Cutter asked us to do, is get ourselves and the sample out. And yet here we are." Young dangles the glock she'd been using by the handle, as if it had offended her somehow. "With <em>tranquilizer</em> darts."</p><p>"I... am looking at the bigger picture. These scientists were recruited out of the best schools and programs around the world," he points out. "Collectively, they're four percent of our entire R&amp;D department. The time and money we'd spend to deal with their," a pause, while he takes a moment to settle on the proper terminology, "<em>premature terminations</em> would bog down accounting, legal, and PR for <em>months</em>."</p><p>Young narrows her eyes at him.</p><p>"They're some of the brightest minds in the world," he continues, as always looking supremely disappointed in her and, indeed, the entire world for not being as smart and far-sighted as him. He's lucky, in this case, that he didn't give her a regular gun with real bullets, or she'd be tempted to use it on him. "Wasting them because it's <em>easier</em> in the moment means more complications down the line. Try to keep up, Miss Young."</p><p>She watches him take forks out of a drawer while the noodles steep, squinting at them for a few seconds before rinsing them in the sink, no doubt trying to wash off whatever crust had been left on them from previous uses. "I thought you weren't interested in middle management bureaucracy," she says.</p><p>"My disdain stems entirely from experience."</p><p>"You always say you're looking at the <em>bigger picture</em>," Young sneers, "but every time I look your way, you're doing something stupid. Like this. Or that stunt with the fireworks." She doesn't really <em>have to</em> needle him like this, but there's something about the way his patience wears progressively thinner, that veneer of polite apathy turning just a shade <em>mean</em> that she enjoys mostly because she knows he hates it. </p><p>"And <em>you're</em> just in it for the money? I doubt that."</p><p>"I do things out of self-interest and entertainment." Rachel pulls her hair out of its tight ponytail and shakes her head, sighing as the tightness in her scalp finally eases. "I'm not deluding myself into thinking Cutter <em>actually</em> wants the best for anyone but himself," she says. "I'm just... along for the ride."</p><p>"Water purification," Kepler recites, bringing one of the cup noodles over and setting it on the table in front of her next to the pile of tranq ammunition and the parts of a sidearm she'd disassembled hoping to reassemble it into a regular gun, "ozone redevelopment, green fertilizers, global internet, AI-improved working conditions--"</p><p>"Oh, <em>please</em>." She takes the fork out of his hand and scowls at his back as he retreats to the other couch with his own cup of noodles, poking dejectedly at its contents. Neither of them particularly want to be stuck with each other, and she fully intends to make him regret dragging her along for this incredibly tedious part of the assignment. "Goddard has a <em>real</em> bigger picture in mind. Everyone else just gets lucky."</p><p>"Well, I know <em>that</em>."</p><p>"But you stick around, playing lapdog." Young spears a little bundle of noodles onto her fork and frowns into the unnaturally yellow broth, the half-rehydrated bits of carrot and peas. "At least <em>commit</em>, Warren."</p><p>He looks up from his noodles, having already put the maximum amount of space between them as humanly possible but visibly considering the prospect of tunneling through the wall to get a little more distance. "I think the fact that I'm tolerating you right now," Kepler says, pulling out his tablet to pretend to do paperwork in a weak ploy to get out of conversation with her, "speaks volumes about my commitment to Goddard Futuristics, Miss Young."</p>
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<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Zero six-hundred, Kepler's alarm goes off. He silences it immediately, already (unfortunately) awake and working the crick out of his neck. Sleeping on a break room couch wouldn't have been a problem for him ten or fifteen years ago, but now curling up on a surface that's too short, with odd lumps along its length and a folded-up jacket as a pillow had wreaked some kind of havoc on his back. It's partly his own fault; too many years spent napping on all sorts of surfaces that shouldn't be used as a bed.</p><p>One small consolation: Rachel Young's piteous groan as her alarm goes off as well, and her struggle to push herself upright. She scrubs her eyes, brushes her fingers a few times through her hair, and then glares across the room at Kepler. "<em>Ugh,</em>" she says.</p><p>Kepler croaks back, "Feeling's mutual."</p><p>They stand at the same time, Kepler heading for one bathroom while Young claims the other. He splashes some water on his face and neck, using his shirt to pat it dry before cupping his hands under the faucet and taking a long drink. They're finished at about the same time too, stepping into the lounge to gear up. </p><p>"You didn't even give me time to pack my makeup," Young complains, distastefully rooting through her bag. She goes for a subtle, practical everyday look but without makeup, the dark circles under her eyes and the smattering of freckles across her nose are actually visible. It's hardly the first time he's seen her bare-faced; they've worked multi-day missions together before. </p><p>"You look good," Kepler shoots back. And before she has a chance to be touched about it he adds, "Much better than your personality, which we both know is terrible."</p><p>"I <em>will</em> strangle you in your sleep."</p><p>Neither of them are eager to get back into the field-- their enthusiasm wasn't high to begin with, and a good night's sleep is out of reach until they're out of the facility and back in Florida. Young sighs at intervals of about forty seconds, every time something isn't quite up to expectations in her prep. Only some of them are Kepler's fault.</p><p>Kepler's ckecking his loadout one last time, tugging on the straps and buckles of his armor to secure them, when the doorknob of the lounge rattles. It's almost lost to the sound of ventilation and the faint shuffle beyond the doors and walls, but it rattles again-- more loudly this time, and more insistently. Then whatever is on the other side knocks three times.</p><p>Young immediately unholsters her weapon, hissing at Kepler to back off when he approaches the door. She shrugs and ducks behind the nearest couch for cover when Kepler ignores her, perfectly happy to use him as a meatshield or a decoy in case who or whatever it is turns out to be hostile. </p><p>"Mr. Jacobi," Kepler says as he pulls open the door, a frown on his face and brows creased. "What are you doing here?"</p><p>"Thought you could use a hand," Jacobi tells him. "Sir." He shifts the pack on his shoulder to the other side, then sets it down as he steps around Kepler and into the room.</p><p>"Where's Maxwell?"</p><p>"Who said Maxwell was here?"</p><p>Kepler rolls his eyes, but then he catches Jacobi by the elbow and physically turns him around. "I didn't say she was here, but now that you mention it..."</p><p>"She's pulling a line from the upper floors so we can access the internet." Jacobi looks around the room. "Actually, you should see her right about--"</p><p>A vent cover clatters to the floor behind them and Maxwell pokes her dust-covered face in as she struggles to pull herself through. Kepler and Jacobi exchange a look, then move as one to help. Kepler stands close enough for Maxwell to wrap her arms around his neck, then steps back until her feet clear the duct and he can set her down. Jacobi reaches his arm in and grabs the cable she was dragging behind her, tugging it into the room.</p><p>"Oh," Rachel deadpans, "wonderful. Santa's little elves are here."</p><p>"This way," says Maxwell, "Jacobi can help you out in the field, and I can connect your comms directly to the rest of the building. Otherwise, we'd be operating on a proxy connection, and there's a bit of a lag."</p><p>"We didn't run into anything, since you already cleared the way."</p><p>Kepler turns his eye on Maxwell. "You let him put you up to this?"</p><p>"We decided together, sir." They've been working together for three years at this point, and while it <em>may</em> have been Jacobi's idea to fly out to Alabama, Maxwell hadn't put up a fight. She looks up at him, sets her jaw and says, "It's the most efficient way. Although I think you should make Jacobi take a nap first."</p><p>"Hey, snitch!"</p><p>"He flew the chopper the whole way," she explains at the inquisitive quirk of Kepler's brow, "and then he carried all the gear down."</p><p>Kepler gives Jacobi a once-over; neither of them are strangers to long shifts or fatigue, but Jacobi <em>did</em> fly all night. His shoulders are slumped with exhaustion, none of his usual straight-backed tension when he's on the clock. "She's right," Kepler says, clapping one hand against his back, leaving it to exert pressure between his shoulder blades. "Get some sleep."</p><p>"Sir, I can--"</p><p>"That wasn't a suggestion," Kepler interrupts. Not harshly-- not even with the same snap in his voice that he usually has, and he punctuates the sentence by fisting his hand into the back of Jacobi's shirt and gently shaking him. "You did your part, Mr. Jacobi. There's plenty left once you're not dead on your feet." </p><p>He feels the breath that Jacobi takes, deep and slow. Despite the complaints, the disinterested air he puts on, Jacobi's always eager to show off and disappointed when he's kept away from his work. But seven straight hours flying a chopper, even with autopilots as advanced as those found at Goddard, will take a physical and mental toll on any operative that would make them more of a liability than an asset.</p><p>"Yes sir," Jacobi grumbles, and moves for a couch. The lack of pushback means he's <em>definitely</em> not up for being in the field. "Thank you sir."</p><p>"Maxwell."</p><p>Looking around the room, Maxwell seems to decide (predictably) that the couch Jacobi isn't occupying is too far, and joins him on the one Kepler had used the night before. She pulls out her laptop, plugs it into the outlet and pulls on a headset. "Setting up now, Major."</p><p>Young, bored of watching him get his team settled in, clears her throat. "Can we get moving already?" </p><p>"You want my team properly set up," Kepler snipes back. "They're <em>your</em> backup, too."</p><p>"Third room on the right only has one," Maxwell pipes up just to reiterate his point, "but the ones on the left are a little busier." Slouched in the seat beside her, Jacobi sullenly eyes her screen, his arms crossed over his chest. </p><p>It's not that Kepler particularly enjoys antagonizing his already-reluctant teammate, but he <em>relishes</em> flaunting the skill and dedication of his team in front of Rachel Young. She doesn't trust any of her people nearly enough to rely on them the way Kepler does his, and consequently he's probably the only department head at Goddard Futuristics with subordinates who hear 'my boss is locked in a secure compound eight hundred miles away' and will jump into a helicopter to join him there. </p><p>"But," he drawls, "I suppose we shouldn't delay further."</p>
<hr/><p>They clear the last room on the right in about three minutes, Kepler taking out the only scientist in it much more gently (by his standards) than the others, if only because they don't have to worry about other unpredictable elements in the mix. Young claims the ID card and sends the reading to Maxwell while Kepler prods a few times at his victim. </p><p>The scientist is a younger woman, her heels kicked off and stockings torn at the ankle when Kepler grappled her to the ground and injected her in the neck with a barbiturate. There's an inflamed patch on her arm around a bite wound but the temperature at her wrists, neck and forehead are all lower than average. Not yet dangerous, but far from ideal. He also pulls up her eyelids and checks the dilation of her pupils, her pulse, pries open her mouth and drags back her lips to look at pale, anemic gums. </p><p>Bold, in Rachel's opinion, to have his fingers so close to the mouth of someone who could infect him with a bite. Bold and stupid. "If you'd like to stop provoking HR complaints at any point," she grumbles.</p><p>He snorts. "I derive absolutely no gratification from touching someone who tried to bite my nose off," Kepler shoots back, finishing his inspection by laying the woman back on the floor, "although if that's something <em>you're</em> into, Miss Young, I'll let you do the honors next time." He stands up, stretching his back and shoulders before they leave the lab and lock the door behind.</p><p>Young's ready to move into the first room on the left, keycard in hand, when there's a rustle on the other end of their earpieces and Jacobi's voice cuts in. "Hold on," he says, plowing on before Kepler can knock him for not following a direct order to rest, "something's weird with the people on the middle room."</p><p>"In what sense?" Kepler asks.</p><p>Maxwell chimes in, "They're not stumbling around, they're all huddled together." There's a catch in her voice, as if the air was briefly knocked out of her lungs. Kepler can practically <em>see</em> Jacobi's head landing on her shoulder, his weight slumping into her side. "You might have some uninfected scientists in there."</p><p>"They were stuck in there all day yesterday?" Young asks. None of them are under the profoundly naive assumption that she's asking out of sympathy; it would serve all of them to know how they'd respond to higher-level Goddard employees barging in.</p><p>"You think they'll know anything?" </p><p>"Might be able to shave some time off this slog if they do." Kepler cracks his knuckles and heads for the middle door. He checks the placement of his weapons before taking out his keycard, taking care to <em>look</em> friendly and empty-handed at first glance. "Guess we have our next stop."</p><p>The room <em>does</em> turn out to have uninfected scientists, all four of them startling when Kepler and Young slip into the room and turn the lights up. They huddle even closer together at their appearance, wide-eyed, before one of them hurriedly stands up and approaches. "You have no idea," he says, "how happy we are to see an extraction team."</p><p>"Uhm," says Young, "we're definitely not an extraction team."</p><p>"Any of you happen to be Dr. Thomson?" Kepler asks, and he ignores the snickers ringing through his earpiece at the sudden ramp-up of his good ol' southern twang. Sue him, they're in Arkansas. Most people respond better to a familiar inflection. "We're stuck here just like the rest of y'all, but it sure would be a help to hear from the man himself."</p><p>Another scientist stands up, slowly as he favors his knees. He peers at Kepler through heavy glasses, and futilely tries to smooth out his rumpled lab coat. "That would be me," he says.</p><p>"Warren Kepler. Logistics." Extending his hand, Kepler enthusiastically clasps and pumps Thomson's once in a firm shake. He keeps his tone warm, almost cloyingly sweet-- it's simultaneously jarring and comforting, the voice of someone who sounds as if he's got everything under control. "And my associate, Rachel Young. She's the head of Special Projects. We were so busy with the audit that there wasn't time to introduce ourselves properly, doctor."</p><p>"Oh that... that's alright."</p><p>"We've got a couple questions about everything that's been going down here since yesterday afternoon," Kepler tells him, briefly meeting Young's eye, "if I could speak to you alone?"</p><p>"Of course."</p><p>"Miss Young," Kepler says next, planting a hand between Thomson's shoulder blades and steering him toward the hallway, "if you could speak with the others and try to corroborate their stories?"</p><p>There's a moment where Young is turned away from the other scientists, and facing Thomson's back while Kepler faces her. She gives him a poisonous glare, but turns to the others with a perfect customer-service smile and a cheery, "Of course, Major Kepler! I'm happy to assist."</p>
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<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Have you all been in there since yesterday? Must've been a rough night," Kepler says out in the hall, voice and expression the perfect picture of sympathy. "I've got this area cleared, and there's plenty of space in the break room. You wouldn't <em>believe</em> the mess the rest of this building is in."</p><p>Thomson is a thin, wispy-looking scientist, graying at the temples and posture bent from countless hours hunched over a miscroscope. He seems to lean into the hand Kepler has on his back, drawn to the man's confidence and breezy professionalism. "When did you say we would be getting out of here?" he asks.</p><p>Kepler hisses through his teeth, pausing outside the break room. He physically turns Thomson in place to face him. "Just between you and me," he says, volume low, "doctor, I don't know if Mr. Cutter's planning to send an extraction team at all. He asked me to make sure that valuable assets are out of the building ASAP, but I'd recommend sitting tight on this level until I can make sure that none of the affected can sneak out with all of you. Wouldn't do to let this spread to genpop."</p><p>"Yes. Yes, of course. That... would be unfortunate."</p><p>"It'll take some time, and I've been asked to check on sub-lab 8." He gives Thomson an pointed look. "I trust you'd be willing to lend me your ID to get down there?"</p><p>"Mr. Kepler-- <em>Major</em> Kepler, wasn't it?"</p><p>"That's right."</p><p>"Listen," Thomson says, "you have to get me out of here."</p><p>"Now, now, doctor, we'll have plenty of time to discuss this further." Clapping him on the shoulder, Kepler reaches for the doorknob. "My team got in just yesterday morning, and they'll need the debrief, too. Here."</p><p>"Can I just--"</p><p>Kepler lets both himself and Thomson into the break room, holding the door open and gesturing him into the space like <em>he's</em> the supervisor of the whole Arkansas facility. When Thomson steps past him, Kepler casually lifts his ID card from the side pocket of his labcoat. In the time he and Young had been gone, Jacobi has inflated a twin-sized air mattress in one corner of the room and passed out on top of it. "Special operatives Daniel Jacobi and Alana Maxwell," he says, gesturing expansively to the respective operatives. Maxwell waves back. "They've been working nonstop since last night to figure out the situation, so excuse the mess."</p><p>"Hi," says Maxwell, giving Kepler a wry smile and turning back to her tablet.</p><p>"Dr. Thomson. We've got a decent idea of how this thing spreads, but I need you to fill in the blanks on how it <em>started</em> and how it's gonna progress." </p><p>Allowing himself to be led to a seat, Thomson seems fully caught up in the pace Kepler's decided to set. "I can try to answer any questions you have," he says. Higher clearance isn't always a boon; some of Cutter's inner circle don't take particularly well to keeping secrets and acting with discretion, and Thomson seems to be one of them, uncomfortable with the added privileges and responsibility.</p><p>"I had a chance to look over a Dr. Hayes earlier," Kepler explains, "and other than the overwhelming urge to take a bite out of me, she didn't seem to be in bad shape. Her temperature was low, and her gums were pale. Anemia?"</p><p>"Yes, well." Deep breath. "It's a transferrin-based virus."</p><p>"Can you elaborate on that, doctor?"</p><p>"It gets into the bloodstream and bonds with iron. Human bodies use the iron in hemoglobin and myoglobin to convert food to fuel. ATP-- Adenosine Triphosphate." Thomson's explanation is halting, a little dry, but he doesn't seem to have trouble phrasing it in a way that even a layman like Kepler can understand. "The virus completes this process at an accelerated pace, giving anyone infected unusual strength and speed while it's active in the system. It was... designed as a stimulant that doesn't require amphetamines or neurotransmitter inhibitors, or cause any chemical dependencies."</p><p>"Why would that lead to trying to bite people?" Maxwell cuts in, looking up from her work. </p><p>"We don't have conclusive evidence," Thomson demurs, "but it seems to greatly diminish the function of the cerebral cortex. It's meant to be a temporary effect, but... rather dangerous, as you've seen."</p><p>"Lack of higher brain functions, plus massive consumption of ATP." Kepler's brows furrow. No stranger to drilling down to the practical implications of scientific jargon, he seems to instantly forget the finer details. "So they're hungry, but aren't able to control it? Why would that lead to targetting only uninfected?"</p><p>"The infected may be able to recognize each other by a certain scent. We think, although... clearly have not had the time to test... that a byproduct of the virus's ATP consumption is a pheremone that can be subconsciously detected." </p><p>"The virus wants to replicate," Kepler fills in, "and wouldn't want to compete against itself. Ergo, they can accurately target uninfected victims. Alright."</p><p>Maxwell raises her hand and waits for Thomson to look at her. "Does the virus die off on its own?"</p><p>"It was... supposed to. But no. No, it carries on until the host is dead."</p><p>"How long do they have?"</p><p>"Not very. Human bodies can usually recycle ATP, but it's unlikely to be able to sustain this rate of consumption." Thomson winces when Kepler's expression darkens, prompting him to get to the point. "A few days," he says, finally.</p><p>"And is there an anti-viral?"</p><p>"We were developing one, but did not expect... an outbreak of this magnitude." Leaning forward, Thomson pulls back his sleeve to show Kepler a bite mark on his arm. To Kepler's credit, he doesn't make any sudden or violent movements in response to the revelation. "I was bitten, and I used the only completed sample we had to keep it from infecting me. You have to understand, I'm the <em>only one</em> who knows the process--"</p><p>"I see," Kepler interrupts, and despite the attempt at warmth in his voice, it's abruptly cold. "Thank you, Dr. Thomson. For the time being, I'll have to ask that you stay in the lab with the others. We'll hook you up with food and supplies to last you for a bit while we figure this thing out."</p><p>"You don't understand," Thomson insists, growing more agitated by the second, "I have to--"</p><p>Kepler cuts him off. "Oh," he says, smooth and sweet, "but I do, Dr. Thomson." </p><p>The scientist looks at him, ready to condescend again. Maxwell had figured out within minutes of meeting Kepler not to do that but of course, not all scientists can be Alana Maxwell.</p><p>"You--"</p><p>"I understand <em>perfectly</em>," says Kepler, harsher now, "that I'm going to be cleaning up this mess, and while I do, you'll be offering whatever inadequate assistance you can possibly contribute after putting the lives of everyone in this facility in danger." Deep breath. "At the moment, I'm offering you an <em>extraordinarily</em> undeserved amount of civility under the condition that you'll be producing enough of the cure to treat everyone in this building, and if you screw even <em>that</em> up, I won't hesitate to let you join the other victims of your little experiment."</p><p>"You-- Cutter told you to get me out of here--"</p><p>"Mr. Cutter has instructed me to secure the <em>valuable assets</em> that remain here," Kepler interrupts, raising his volume just enough to drown out Thomson's objection, "and you, Dr. Thomson, were not on that list." He gives the scientist a moment to process that, having already gotten the information he wants out of the conversation and moved on to twisting arms to make sure he gets the results, too. "If I were you, I'd be doing my best to <em>make</em> myself an asset." </p><p>Maxwell winces in sympathy at Thomson's flabbergasted expression, but she's seen Kepler at work enough to know what comes next. His first impression is always magnanimous, warm. He puts on the sympathetic face and coaxes out information. The moment he has it, he changes gears. Anger to throw someone into a panic, and then come the commands-- calm and brisk, comforting in their simplicity.</p><p>"I assume you need a sample of the catalyst stored in Sub-8 to produce more of the anti-viral," Kepler says.</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>"Then I expect you to draw up a list of all the materials you need," he dictates to a defeated Thomson, "so we can reduce the number of times my team and I need to put ourselves at risk. Until then, you and the other three can draft a <em>plan</em> on how to maximize the speed at which you churn out this cure. Do I make myself clear?"</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>Kepler nods, taking four packs of nutrition gel from the pile on the nearest table and gesturing for Thomson to stand up and accompany him back to the other room. "What's your timeline for completion?" he asks, friendly again. That's part of the ruse too, the <em>Do as I say, and I'm your best friend</em> act. <em>Or don't, and see how hellish I can make your life</em>.</p><p>"I need an hour to take inventory and give you the list." Thomson sighs as he trails Kepler back, and again when the packs of carbohydrate gel are distributed to grateful scientists. </p><p>"Dr. Thomson has been briefed," Kepler announces cheerfully, addressing the other three scientists, "and I'm gonna need your help to make sure we all get out of this safe and sound."</p><p>Young rolls her eyes, knowing Kepler's M.O. but not about to discount the reaction that his presence seems to elicit from a bunch of scared, clueless nerds who want desperately to believe that he might be their friend. She doesn't interrupt, and she sees Kepler look at her only once, when he turns <em>his</em> customer-service smile on her after vaguely detailing his plan to get the entire facility un-infected. He makes it sound palatable while they're sucking down the pouches of gel, breaking a frankly monumental task into easily digestible parts to obfuscate how badly it can go wrong at every step of the operation.</p>
<hr/><p>Maxwell joins them at the tail end of Kepler's speech, hauling a bag of supplies with her. Snacks and drinks expertly dislodged from the break room vending machine, and he gives her a knowing, proud grin when she brings them to him without needing to be prompted. </p><p>They back out of the lab eventually, pausing in front of the break room when Young grabs Kepler by the arm and pulls him back. Maxwell takes a step away, just in case something erupts, but makes no move to leave. </p><p>"This is what I mean," Young snarls, jabbing her finger into Kepler's chest, "when I say that <em>every time</em> I look your way, you're doing something stupid." At his questioning look, she elaborates: "We should get out of here. You <em>have</em> the card, we can just grab the catalyst and go!"</p><p>Scoffing, Kepler shakes his head. "But imagine how <em>pleased</em> Mr. Cutter would be," he answers, slow and mocking, "to see us go above and beyond the minimum parameters that he set out for us." Less pretentiously, "Besides, if you thought we weren't gonna be the ones on cleanup once we're out <em>anyway</em>, you really aren't prepared to be <em>Director of Special Projects</em>. We'll be doing future us a favor."</p><p>She could theoretically pull rank on him, but it's not as if she's forgotten his promotion to Major in the first place. Kepler respects the hierarchy <em>to an extent</em>. He's an ideal operative <em>to an extent</em>. But he can, has, and will buck a command that he doesn't truly believe will accomplish whatever personal agenda he has on the docket, and Young has no intention of being strung along and then hung out to dry like Richard Littlewood was. "I hate you so much," she growls.</p><p>"Maxwell, don't you think Mr. Cutter would be glad to see us doing our work so thoroughly?"</p><p>Jacobi's asleep, but Kepler expects them to pick up the slack for each other so she chimes in with a cheery, "Ecstatic, sir."</p><p>"See?"</p><p><em>Suck-up</em>, Rachel mouths at her.</p><p>Maxwell forms her mouth around the words <em>Top of the class</em>, and falls into step behind Kepler when he heads back into the break area.</p>
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<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"You lied to Thomson about when we got in," Maxwell comments when Kepler drops onto the couch beside her. "Why?" She shifts a little closer, moving the tablet in her hands to hold it between them. Her face is drawn, dark bags under her eyes and a hunched look to her shoulders, arms pulled close to her body. </p><p>"So he wouldn't think there was a way out of the building," he answers with a shrug, turning away from his inspection of Maxwell to pick up the ratty throw blanket he'd used the night before and drop it into her lap. "As far as he knows, it's fully secure. Honestly, I'm still trying to figure out how <em>you two</em> got in."</p><p>Letting out a thoughtful hum, Maxwell lets Kepler take the tablet completely while she wraps herself into the blanket. "Mr. Cutter remotely authorized us. He said that we wouldn't be getting out without our objectives accomplished," she adds, reaching under his arm to navigate to the facility's blueprints for him, "but he said, 'Your dedication is admirable, so I'll let you crazy kids inside, just this once'."</p><p>"Even though Jacobi checked out a bird without clearance?"</p><p>"<em>Especially</em> because Jacobi checked out a bird without clearance." Maxwell yawns, then pulls lightly on his sleeve. "Are you going to rest, Major? We brought more air mattresses."</p><p>"Later." He passes her tablet back to her, then reaches for his own laptop. He angles the screen and keyboard discreetly away from her, so smoothly she could mistake it for casual if he hadn't grilled her on sightlines and computer security before. "Thomson said the virus gives them unusual strength and speed, but I didn't think there was anything particularly unusual about their strength or speed."</p><p>"Maybe you're just really strong," Maxwell quips, and returns his side-eye with a cheeky smile. She's not usually one for praise, rarely giving it even when it's warranted, but Kepler <em>had</em> impressed on her multiple times the utility of a well-placed compliment. And he <em>does</em> like to see his subordinates putting his feedback into practice. </p><p>He ignores the comment, but Maxwell doesn't miss his quiet huff of a laugh. "It was like fighting someone without inhibitions," he says, "but not extraordinary strength."</p><p>"It's been a while since the outbreak began," Maxwell points out. "If they're exhausting their energy reserves, they wouldn't be able to do quite as much damage over a sustained period."</p><p>"Guess I'll find out when I head back in." He browses to a folder on his laptop, then clicks through a few more directories, frowning. Whatever files he's accessing, it's a more involved process than reaching his personal server. "Are you done setting up communications?"</p><p>"Almost. You should be online by now."</p><p>"Good. You'll be keeping an eye on Thomson while I retrieve the catalyst with Jacobi." Muffling a yawn into his fist, Kepler leans sideways onto the armrest, away from Maxwell, and props his chin on the heel of his palm as he types. "I want you to know the process and be able to track them through it. Make sure there's no funny business."</p><p>Maxwell makes a face at him. "You want me to bone up on the most cutting-edge virology in the world in an hour and a half?"</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>"Sir."</p><p>Looking up from his screen, Kepler raises his brows at her dismayed expression. "You don't have to know every last aspect of the procedure," he says, "I just need you to confirm for me that Thomson is doing what he says he is. All right?"</p><p>"Yes sir."</p><p>He tilts his chin toward the stack of supplies Jacobi had brought in. "Take some time to rest."</p><p>"Do kind of need that time for studying."</p><p>"No need. Thomson submitted a primer a few days ago to Mr. Cutter. Shouldn't take more than twenty minutes to read through."</p><p>"Are you sure it'll be enough?"</p><p>The tablet in her hand dings when she receives the file, and Kepler motions for her to open the document. "It's good enough for Cutter. I'm sure you'll get more out of it than he could."</p>
<hr/><p>Maxwell's curled up on the other end of the couch, her alarm set to wake her up after a twenty-minute catnap, by the time Young comes back. She drops a recording device into Kepler's lap and then sits on the arm of the couch, scowling at him while he transfers the audio to his laptop and calls up transcription software. "I still think this is a stupid idea," she says. Neither Maxwell nor Jacobi stir, exhausted from their flight and their trek down to sub-7 to join Kepler.</p><p>"Mr. Cutter might decide it's more expedient to bring down the building and settle with the families," Kepler answers, reading off his screen. "You know how much work <em>that</em> would entail."</p><p>"Yeah," says Young, "but I can delegate."</p><p>"And my team and I <em>greatly appreciate</em> your assistance."</p><p>She leans over, propping her arm on his shoulder and bringing her face uncomfortably close to his ear. "Little bird's singing a different tune now that he needs my cooperation, hm?"</p><p>There was a time when Kepler first joined Goddard Futuristics that he appreciated her presence. She's one of very few people Cutter entrusts with sensitive information and classified assignments, and usually has a grasp on what their boss might be thinking or feeling. Other than David Clarke, who neither of them take particularly seriously, Rachel Young spends more time than anyone else shadowing GF's head of communications.</p><p>In the beginning, she'd been downright friendly with Kepler. They were in completely different departments but given the opportunity to work together, they'd leapt at the chance. Young's previous work in intelligence contributed significantly to his own understanding of Goddard intelligence operations and Warren absorbed everything like a sponge, eventually anticipating her moves before she'd even make her plans known and stepping in to facilitate her work without being asked. </p><p>Before long, he'd become exactly the kind of employee that Cutter favored, a credible threat to her standing in the company, and he knew it. He liked being in the field <em>far</em> too much to ever unseat Young's place in Cutter's confidence, but she could always see him circling closer, waiting for a drop of blood to hit the water. </p><p>Kepler gives her a toothy, humorless grin and shuts the lid of his computer before shrugging her off and standing. "Why don't you report my proposal to Mr. Cutter," he says, "and see how much he likes the idea of having to navigate a small PR scandal over a facility's ventilation standards instead of a full-blown catastrophe?"</p><p>"We can push it out of the news within a day," Young scoffs.</p><p>"A building coming down, killing four hundred of the country's top scientific minds, will stay in the news for more than a day." Young's expression shifts, a pitying <em>Shows how much you know about GF</em> frown on her face, but Kepler presses on. "And there's the second Hephaestus launch to think about," he says. "We're swamped with that as it is."</p><p>"Uuuungh," Rachel groans, "don't remind me."</p><p>She's not a short-sighted person, but Kepler privately suspects that she enjoys the needling and the bickering. She has to have considered all of his points already. "I've got my team here, so you're welcome to get back to doing," Kepler makes a dismissive gesture, "whatever you were doing."</p>
<hr/><p>Thomson returns with the list only slightly ahead of schedule, and by then Maxwell's up again, helping Young set up a workstation. Young had briefly considered returning to her office, the route between it and the elevator already cleared, but after weighing her options decided to stay in the lounge. All the extra supplies Jacobi and Maxwell had hauled in are still in the break area, after all, not to mention all the Goddard employees most capable of defending a position. </p><p>Accepting the list with a pensive nod, Kepler stops Thomson from retreating to the lab with only a gesture to wait as he finishes reading. "How long will the process take?" he asks, not looking up.</p><p>Since their last exchange, Thomson seems to have begrudgingly accepted Kepler's terms. He looks haggard, but more at ease with a plan of action. "Two days." Shuffling forward a little to read upside-down, he waits for Kepler to lock eyes with him again. "We think the best way to distribute it would be through the ventilation systems."</p><p>"Does your team need to be down in sub-8?"</p><p>"No. Other than the samples and reagents listed here, we have all the supplies we need in the lab. Everything to complete the first step is available right now."</p><p>Kepler makes a thoughtful sound, brows furrowed. "Can the infected hold out that long?"</p><p>"Not normally." Wringing the lapels of his lab coat, Thomson continues without prompting, "But if you drop the temperature of the facility ten degrees, they'll stay just within a safe range. Of course, <em>some</em> outliers may experience lasting damage, but the cold should slow down ATP consumption enough to last until we can administer the cure."</p><p>"This facility maintains at seventy fahrenheit. If we drop it to sixty, hypothermia becomes a risk."</p><p>"There's no wind in the facility," the doctor points out, "and it's not very humid. They should be able to hold out. Lower temperatures will also make them slower and easier to avoid."</p><p>"And your team?"</p><p>"We have a space heater for the lab."</p><p>"Alright. Prepare what you can." Kepler purses his lips, considering his options. "I'll clear out two labs," he says after a moment, "so the science team will have extra space to work and an area to rest."</p><p>"I appreciate that."</p><p>"Alright. Let's get started."</p><p>"Oh." Pausing in his tracks, Thomson reaches into his pocket for his ID card, then frantically pats down his other pockets when he doesn't find it. "Wait, you need my card to access the lower floors, you said-- I just need a moment--"</p><p>"Doctor," Kepler says, wide-eyed, flashing the card at him, "you already gave it to me. Are you alright?"</p><p>"I could've sworn..."</p><p>"You've had a long two days," Kepler tells him, sounding indulgent. "Maybe you should rest until the supplies are all in order. Should be a few hours, at least."</p><p>"Yes-- yes, of course. That may be the right move."</p><p>Kepler waits for Thomson to shuffle out, shutting the door behind him, before he goes to where Jacobi's still laid out on the air mattress. He's laying on his side, jacket folded up under his head to act as a pillow and boots kicked haphazardly nearby. He's still knocked out completely, breathing even and deep, and he doesn't stir when Kepler kneels in front of the air mattress. He <em>does</em> turn his face into the palm Kepler rests on his temple, seeking warmth in the contact.</p><p>"Mr. Jacobi," Kepler says, softly, "I need you up." </p><p>The words 'I need you' and 'do this for me' have an effect on Jacobi that he's probably not even aware of, but it wakes him. Kepler doesn't often use those phrases, but in moments when Jacobi falters, rare as they are, it's a nifty way to bring him back to cool professionalism. Maxwell gives him a reproachful look, and Kepler will admit to the timing being a touch inhumane-- an hour is hardly enough time to recover from an all-nighter. </p><p>But they have work to do, and Kepler pulls his hand away as Jacobi comes to full consciousness.</p><p>"Wide awake," he says, sitting up, words slurred with sleep and exhaustion. </p><p>"Good." Kepler shifts his grip to Jacobi's shoulder while the younger man digs the heels of his palms into his eyes and yawns. The pressure seems to ground him, steady him after being abruptly roused. "You're with me."</p><p>Jacobi seems to perk up at the prospect of getting back in the field, shaking his head to clear the last of his grogginess. He pulls on his boots, allowing Kepler to pull him to his feet. Then he unrolls his jacket and pulls it on, leaning into the shoulder Kepler bumps against his. "What's next?"</p>
<hr/><p>Kepler briefs Jacobi while they gear up, and Maxwell tosses them both a packet of energy gel as Jacobi heads out the door on Kepler's heels. They clear the first lab in no time at all, dragging Dr. Hayes into a mostly-empty storage space they've designated as a temporary holding cell. Jacobi marks the newly-secured room, scrawling on the steel door with a permanent marker. SAFE in big, bold block letters. </p><p>The second lab contains less equipment, both occupants already unconscious from Kepler and Young's combined efforts the night before. They move the scientists into the same space as Hayes, and push all the equipment to one side of the room. Jacobi retreats to the lounge to retrieve four inflatable camping mats for the scientists, along with enough MREs to last them two days. A few creature comforts as a reward for their cooperation. </p><p>Jacobi marks that door too, and follows Kepler to the elevator. "Thomson give us a picture of what's on sub-8?"</p><p>"Completely uncontained outbreak."</p><p>"Oh." A grimace. "Gas grenade?"</p><p>"Gas grenade."</p><p>Jacobi sighs as Kepler pushes a plastic contraption into his arms and the elevator takes them down. "I <em>hate</em> gas masks," he says. He's mentioned this enough times that he doesn't need to elaborate; the reduced view, the heavy mouthpiece weighing down his head-- all terrible. </p><p>Kepler flashes him a crooked grin, pulling on his own mask with a cheery, "We should always wear protection, Mr. Jacobi!"</p><p>Daniel's groan is badly muffled behind his headgear, so he gives Kepler a very visible two thumbs down instead. The corners of Kepler's eyes crinkle behind the glass eyepieces, and he turns to the doors as the elevator comes to a stop. There's a crackle in both their ears as the coms come back online.</p><p>"I don't want to go out there without a read on the situation first." Kepler digs his fingers into the seam between the doors, and gingerly tests the double-reinforced steel frame. "Can we crack the doors enough for a grenade? Maxwell?"</p><p>"No. Not from here."</p><p>Never one to futilely expend his own energy, Kepler steps away from the door, already making room for his right hand man as they both pull off their gas masks and set them on the floor. "Jacobi?"</p><p>Jacobi spins a screwdriver over his thumb, stepping into the vacated space. He zeroes in on the button panel, taking six screws expertly out and pulling the plate away to get at the wires underneath. "On it," he says. </p><p>"Make sure we can still get the doors shut and the elevator operational." Kepler watches him work for a few seconds, then picks up the dismantled pane. "Maxwell," he says, "the elevator is a custom-fabricated Otis, based off the KPS-305 model. I'm sending you a picture of the panel. Get Jacobi anything he needs."</p><p>"Understood," she says.</p><p>Not interested in just sitting around, Kepler glances around the elevator. He slips a pocketknife out of his boot and uses the handrails lining the compartment to reach the ceiling, one foot braced on each of two perpendicular holds. Jacobi glances at him once, then immediately goes back to work. </p><p>Kepler shifts his stance, moving his feet to parallel handrails instead, one palm pressed flat against the ceiling for security and the other unscrewing the ceiling panel. He drops it carefully next to Jacobi's discard pile, returns his knife to his boot, and hooks his fingers along the edge of the exit.</p><p>"Don't break your neck," Jacobi says.</p><p>"I'm counting on you to catch me," Kepler shoots back. It takes him a few seconds to maneuver through the narrow hatch, boots scraping against stainless steel walls for leverage before he manages to pull himself up. "I don't see any vents into sub-8 from here," he observes. "Might mean we'll need to dose anyone on this floor manually."</p><p>"Sub-8 has its own ventilation system," Young cuts in, rapid typing from her end as well as the distant clack of keys in the background that must be Maxwell. "Shouldn't be too difficult to rig it."</p><p>"Miss Young," Kepler says, voice dry, "good of you to join us."</p><p>"Listen," she answers, sounding grim, "Cutter would string you up if I ended up dead in here. And he'll come after <em>me</em> if I left <em>you</em> to rot. So I guess I'm helping, because you idiots definitely aren't getting this done by yourselves."</p><p>Jacobi snorts. There's the sound of ripping plastic and wrenched metal from his end. "I think she likes us."</p>
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<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jacobi takes about fifteen minutes to rig the elevator doors, leaving three cut wires with their last inch exposed sticking out from the panel. He stands up, stretching his back and watching Kepler haul their supplies through the ceiling hatch. "Need a hand up there?" he asks, picking up the last duffel bag and passing it up to Kepler's outstretched arm.</p>
<p>"Got it," he answers, face disappearing from view. A pair of booted feet slip down, Kepler sitting briefly on the edge of the hatch before he lowers himself gingerly down into the elevator and lands next to Jacobi.</p>
<p>Tilting his head toward the panel, Jacobi reaches out and flicks a wire to indicate his handiwork. "I'm ready over here, too."</p>
<p>He scoops up the gas masks next, handing Kepler's over and then pulling on his own. Kepler unholsters his gun, bumping his elbow against Jacobi's upper arm as he places himself in front of the door. "The gas?"</p>
<p>"Here." Jacobi lobs the grenade at Kepler, who catches it easily despite his unwieldy headgear. "Should fill up the entire room in about three minutes, then take a couple seconds to work."</p>
<p>"This elevator's supposed to be hermetically sealed." 'Supposed to be' doesn't mean very much to the SI-5, all of them accustomed to plans going badly awry, but the comment does prompt Jacobi to pull on his gas mask as well. "How far is the range on this thing?"</p>
<p>"Ideally," Daniel answers, adjusting the clasps, "the hall is about a hundred square feet. It'll do the job if the labs are sealed off. Two grenades would take concentration to fatal levels, but one should knock them out for a couple minutes."</p>
<p>"Worst case scenario?"</p>
<p>"All the lab doors are open and the grenade does nothing. Slows 'em down a little, maybe."</p>
<p>"I'll drop the grenade outside the elevator doors. They go down, we'll have a bit of a buffer. If we're lucky, we won't need it."</p>
<p>"Hope for the best," Jacobi quips, repeating a line that Kepler himself loves despite how much it makes him sound like a middle-aged auntie, "prepare for the worst." He takes two of the wires he'd stripped and brushes the exposed ends together, hands held out of the way of sparks. The elevator doors shudder briefly, internal mechanisms working as the doors creak open an inch, then two, Kepler peering through the crack until it opens just enough to gently lob the grenade into the crowd. </p>
<p>Immediately seizing the other wire, Jacobi shuts the doors as gray smoke begins to billow out of his sedative bomb and Kepler pulls back with a laugh. "Three minutes, you said?"</p>
<p>"Three," Jacobi confirms. "If we poke our heads out and they're not all knocked out, there's something going on with the doors on this level."</p>
<p>The Kepler who's preternaturally still in other company doesn't bother with restraint around Jacobi, bouncing lightly on his heels as he waits out the allotted time. "What's in that thing," he asks, pulling a handful of heavy-duty zipties out of a pocket, "anyway?"</p>
<p>"Desflurane."</p>
<p>"So <em>that's</em> why you wanted medical-grade anaesthetic. We've never really used it."</p>
<p>"I mean," Jacobi answers, idly preparing some of his own ties, "compared to how fast you can clear out a room, we've never needed it." </p>
<p>"SI-4 uses 'em pretty regularly."</p>
<p>"You don't really elbow into their assignments," Jacobi points out.</p>
<p>Giving him a pensive nod, Kepler checks his watch. He rolls his head on his shoulders, a few quiet cracks and pops making him grimace as he loosens the stiffness in his neck. "I'm trying to get Lin used to leading a team."</p>
<p>"She's sharp."</p>
<p>"Resourceful, yeah. Thirty seconds." </p>
<p>Jacobi snags the wires again, this time one-handed as he carefully maneuvers the stripped ends together. He doesn't let it go all the way yet, just enough for Kepler to look through the crack. "I'm ready, Freddy."</p>
<p>"Never call me that again," Kepler says, but he signals for Jacobi to finish the process, having confirmed the multiple shapes slumped on the ground by the elevator. He sprints toward the farthest scientist the moment the doors widen enough, roughly zip-tying his ankles together. "The wrists are lower priority," he says. </p>
<p>He's always operated that way, pulling back, eyes on the big picture. Easier to build a dam in the dry season than to pile on sandbags in a hurricane. How can a zombie grab you to bite if it can't even get to you? </p>
<p>Behind him, Jacobi does the same to another scientist, simultaneously scanning the hall for open doors, or incoming infected. The two operatives work their way through eight scientists before they all begin to stir, struggling against the plastic bindings. Kepler is more cautious with the final two, planting a booted foot on their backs as he immobilizes their legs and then their wrists just to be sure. He directs Jacobi to make one more round, tying wrists so the only option for movement left for them is inchworming their way across the floor.</p>
<p>"Hey," Jacobi says, regarding their handiwork as they both remove their masks, "sure gives a new meaning to the phrase 'ankle-biters', huh?"</p>
<p>Kepler doesn't respond directly to the comment, but he grins, and slaps a sheet of paper into Jacobi's hand, the list of supplies and amounts needed. "Grab an extra five percent of everything," he says, having worked with enough demolitions experts to know that not every bit of every chemical or sample can be used. "I'll get the catalyst and join you."</p><hr/>
<p>The labs are empty-- standard protocol, apparently, for scientists on this floor to gather in the corridor and lock down the labs if something were to leak, escape, aerosolize into or otherwise contaminate their linked air supplies. Seemed like one or two of them made it out in time to infect the rest of the building before the others were trapped by an automatic shutdown protocol on Sub-8. </p>
<p>Jacobi would find it funny, if he weren't painfully aware of just how easily that could've been any one of the SI-5, on some other assignment, some other close call. Sometimes company assets are simply more important than human lives.</p>
<p>The locations of each material are listed next to their names, and Jacobi pulls open the first refrigerated cabinet to regard dozens of glass vials held upright on test tube racks. His first reaction is to scan the room for a cart, handily located in a far corner collecting dust, and then to remove all the various junk that had accumulated on it over months of disuse. Dried-out pens, wadded up balls of notepaper, a few leaflets and takeout menus. </p>
<p>He loads it up, making quick work of half the contents of the first cabinet and starting on the second. Jacobi's nearly done with the next one when Kepler steps into the room behind him, a metal canister in his hand, and he sets it carefully on the cart as well before he gestures for the list and opens the third cabinet.</p>
<p>"What I'm getting," Jacobi reports, "is that we pretty much need a bit of everything."</p>
<p>"Copy." Kepler gestures at him to take cabinet four. "Miss Young, have the numbers ready for Jacobi. Maxwell, you're on me." He waits for two affirmatives, both snappy. Young wouldn't bother trying to needle Jacobi. "How many 10mL vials of proteinase K?"</p>
<p>Maxwell spits out the number, and while Kepler gently moves twenty-eight vials of proteinase to the cart, she's already looked up the next thing on his list. She had included in the calculations the extra five percent, the volume of each compound contained in the vials, and apparently had an inventory list that even told her which reagents were kept in which cabinets. </p>
<p>Rachel Young, who isn't quite on the same level as certified computational prodigy Alana S. Maxwell, seems to be working well enough with Jacobi, and they move at a pace nearly as quick as Kepler's. Jacobi's used to doing calculations in his head, and Maxwell had shared the inventory with Young, complete with her own flourishes and background functions streamlining this process. </p>
<p>"Just buffers and decontaminants left," Jacobi says, and he takes the cart by the handle, whisking it out the door for a supply closet the moment Kepler sets his last compound onto it. </p>
<p>Kepler keeps an eye on the cart while Jacobi loads it up, mind already racing to his next objective. He's always been <em>good</em> at managing human resources, but as much as it begrudges him to admit, Rachel Young is better. "Dr. Maxwell," he says into his coms, "switch places with Miss Young, would you?"</p>
<p>"Wilco."</p>
<p>There's a brief shuffle on the other end, Maxwell standing up from her desk and moving to Young's side of the room. The first thing Young says to him when she pulls on Maxwell's headset is '<em>What</em>,' but she falls silent in order to actually hear him.</p>
<p>"Find out what the SI-5 can do to expedite this process," Kepler says. "We'll defer to you."</p>
<p>Young lets out a thoughtful hum, pretending to weigh the extra work of organizing them against having Kepler and his subordinates answer to her. Kepler waits patiently, secure at least in the knowledge that they're both capable of putting aside their grudges to complete the assignment they were given, to put survival above spite.</p>
<p>"The second lab needs to be decontaminated," Young answers after a few seconds of thought, "but the first step of the antiviral can be done in the one they're in now. Including Thompson, there's four scientists getting that one ready for work. They'll need a lab tech who can properly assist."</p>
<p>"Maxwell."</p>
<p>"My thoughts <em>exactly</em>. You and Jacobi start on the decontam of lab 2, then get the last room ready for a sleepover." Nothing objectionable about that, Kepler decides, and Young continues when he doesn't raise any complaints. "Thomson's team will make fewer mistakes if they're well-rested, so I'm expecting the bulk of the most sensitive work to be done tomorrow. By EOD and for all of tomorrow, you three should be ready to shadow one scientist each and... well, basically be their personal lab assistant."</p>
<p>"And the report for Mr. Cutter--"</p>
<p>"Will be finished by the time we're out."</p>
<p>Kepler huffs, swinging his arms a few times to loosen his shoulders. "You two catch all that?" he says into the open channel, and waits on an affirmative from both Jacobi and Maxwell. "And we're done here. Let's go."</p><hr/>
<p>"Never thought I'd be happy to see one of these," Young huffs when Kepler drops an MRE into her lap and then distributes the others. In addition to the few that Jacobi brought, they had turned up several portions nearing their expiration date in a Sub-8 room that looked suspiciously like some sort of bunker. In lieu of stopping for meals, scientists and operatives alike had been scarfing down protein bars and energy gel packs to sustain themselves through the day.</p>
<p>In the other room, the scientists have already received their portions for the night, as well as several lightweight insulated sleeping bags. Kepler had ordered his team to clear out and let them relax without a bunch of black ops agents breathing down their necks, but Maxwell's open laptop is streaming a video and audio feed of the lab in the background. They're gathered around their space heater, while the break room crew have bundled themselves into jackets. </p>
<p>"I've got chicken chunks," Maxwell reports, reading off her package before she rips it open and arranges the goods in front of her. She also has crackers, cheese spread, and two flavored drink powders.</p>
<p>"And I," says Jacobi, squinting at his own, "got sausage and gravy." He also gets a packet of granola, some shelf-stable bread, and peanut butter. "What about you, Major?"</p>
<p>"Meat loaf," Kepler answers, already packing the vacuum-sealed food into insulated plastic bags with his flameless ration heater along with about a cup of water. "I remember this one isn't bad." Any other day, he'd have a story attached to the memory-- Jacobi and Maxwell are eyeing him expectantly-- but he just shakes up the bag and sets it aside to wait for his food to steam. </p>
<p>Unlike their usual assignments, which consist almost entirely of sitting, waiting and planning before a few short bursts of (usually violent) activity, the SI-5 had been running around, organizing and fetching things all day. None of it was particularly engaging but all of it essential to allow the scientists to do their work. It's technically an easier assignment than many he's had, but tedious, repetitive chores were always more of a drain on his energy.</p>
<p>The other two members of the SI-5 don't have that problem, both of them clearly used to that kind of work in R&amp;D, and while they're both tired, the novelty of this assignment seems to give them a boost of energy.</p>
<p>"I think I saw Instant Noodles in the cabinet when I was looking for coffee," Maxwell says, meeting Jacobi's eyes. She shakes her half-opened bag of white meat chicken chunks and points at it as if she were a game-show host introducing a prize.</p>
<p>"Is noodles and gravy a thing?" Jacobi asks, sniffing at his opened pack of white sausage gravy. "I think it's gotta be a thing."</p>
<p>"Unfortunately," answers Maxwell, "it's a thing."</p>
<p>They stand simultaneously, grinning on their way to raid the cabinet for the remainder of the Instant Noodles.</p><hr/>
<p>"That," says Rachel Young, dropping onto the couch next to Kepler with her own ration of a ready-to-eat hamburger, "is disgusting."</p>
<p>She uses her chin to gesture at Jacobi and Maxwell, who've rinsed all the chicken broth powder off two blocks of ramen noodles and cooked them in their styrofoam containers and drained them. Now, Jacobi's dumping chicken and gravy into each cup, mixing the concoction with a plastic fork he'd turned up earlier.</p>
<p>Kepler heaves a sigh, taking a sip of a violently lime-green electrolyte drink that had been reconstituted from powder. "You know," he says, resignation in his voice and his expression, "before MREs, there were C rations. Those used to come with cigarettes."</p>
<p>"You don't smoke."</p>
<p>Having already finished his meat loaf (mainly by ignoring the appetite-destroying antics Jacobi and Maxwell are getting up to with their dinner), Kepler rips open a packet of cheese spread with his teeth and squeezes it out in a wavy pattern over two squares of plain crackers. "Could really use one right now," he quips.</p>
<p>"We'll be done by midday tomorrow," Young says, dismissing him, "and it should take about an hour or two to disperse the antidote through the vents. Dr. Thomson didn't think anyone would be able to streamline the whole process so much. That's actually a much more adequate job than I expected out of you."</p>
<p>"I <em>did</em> spend a year in Logistics," Kepler points out, taking the (backhanded) compliment in the way that he knows will infuriate Young the most. He didn't think his subordinates would have been able to improve efficiency to that extent either, but one thing he's learned after so many years fighting his way up the corporate food chain is that he shouldn't act shocked when people perform beyond expectations. More smug: "Maxwell and Jacobi <em>are</em> two of the finest developers at Goddard HQ."</p>
<p>"But they didn't think to bring more sleeping bags or air mattresses?"</p>
<p>"None of us really expected to find uninfected scientists who happen to have the exact experience needed to fabricate an anti-viral, so... no. You're welcome to spend another night on the couch if you'd rather not share with Maxwell."</p>
<p>Young makes a disgusted sound, massaging her neck with the heel of her palm at the prospect of spending another night on the bumpy, too-short sofa. She pitches her voice lower, sneering at Kepler out of the side of her mouth. "Oh, it's not a problem for <em>me</em>."</p>
<p>He gives her a skeptical look, chewing on his cheesy crackers with disinterest that would put a lizard to shame. "I'm not sure I see where there might be a problem for anyone else, Miss Young."</p>
<p>"You don't foresee a problem sharing a bed with an operative who's got some pretty <em>inappropriate</em> feelings about you?"</p>
<p>Kepler would say that he can't foresee <em>anyone</em> having inappropriate feelings toward someone who hasn't showered in two days, but he just shrugs. "Mr. Jacobi is a professional," he says, popping the last of his cheese cracker into his mouth and dusting off his hands.</p>
<p>"Well, okay!" Young claims the whole couch when Kepler stands, giving him a cheeky wave as he moves for the air mattress shoved into the corner of the room by the fridge. "If you say so."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>With two restrooms in the break room, Young and Jacobi take their turns first-- not that there's much any of them can do in a room containing one each of a grimy sink, toilet and urinal. It's nothing like the bathrooms at HQ, and Young makes her displeasure known before she shuts and locks the door behind her. </p><p>Kepler lounges on one of the couches, a laptop propped on his knees. He doesn't look up when Maxwell plops onto the couch next to him, but he does nudge her ankle with his foot. "All right, Doctor?"</p><p>"Yes, sir," she chirps, rubbing her hands together and breathing on her fingers to warm them. "Why?"</p><p>"You're not usually in the thick of it with us," he answers, and hands over the gloves from his jacket's inner pocket, still warm from sitting against his chest. </p><p>"I don't mind," Maxwell tells him. She pulls the gloves on immediately, scooting close enough to sap some of his heat before she nestles into the lumpy cushions. Kepler hadn't seemed thrilled to see her when she popped out of that vent, but he also did immediately put her to work so he can't have been <em>that</em> upset. "Besides," she adds, "you're keeping me cooped up here."</p><p>That prompts him to set his laptop aside, dragging a hand down his face before he looks her over, regarding the keen stare she fixes on his face. "Your work's more important than all this menial labor," he says, indicating the scientists one room over with a tilt of his head. "It'd be a waste of your abilities."</p><p>As often as Maxwell is chosen for assignments with them, Kepler usually kept her on the back lines, sequestered away in the hotel room, the getaway vehicle, a surveillance van. Her work can usually be done remotely, and despite how much time she's put into building up her physical strength, he keeps her well out of the way. Maxwell answers, "Then I said: Here am I. Send me!" </p><p>Being a man who appreciates dramatics, Kepler can't fight back a smile at that. </p><p>"Let me help out more, sir."</p><p>"Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies; Thou anointest my head with oil." He winks at her, the crooked grin on his face a perfect mirror to her <em>Ooh, a blasphemy!</em> smile. He's spare with his praise but he's commended Maxwell for going above and beyond what he's asked of her before. "My cup runneth over."</p><p>She's seen Kepler turn on the flattery, and Maxwell huffs. Part of her knows that he's <em>very good</em> at sounding sincere when it's convenient, and there's a good chance he's just flipped it on her to make her drop the subject. But he's tired; they're all tired. Sometimes, Tired Kepler is twice as charming, and sometimes Tired Kepler is disarmingly honest, and she tries not to think too hard about that overlap. "When did you memorize Psalms?" Maxwell asks, letting her head drop against his shoulder.</p><p>"I ever tell you," Kepler says, "about the week I spent moonlighting as a Puritan minister in Waltham, Massachusetts?" He waits for her resigned <em>Not yet,</em> before continuing. "I was sent to determine the whereabouts of a scroll of St. Eustace, recently discovered to be missing. Turns out, someone had stolen it in the early 18th century and sold it to a collector in New York!"</p><p>"Did you have to recover it?"</p><p>"Mr. Cutter just asked me to find out where it was. Think he wanted to put me to the test before transferring me to intelligence."</p><p>They fall into a contemplative silence, both of them considering the implications of Cutter's more whimsical assignments. There's a solid chance that he assigns them to Kepler simply to keep the man from getting bored, and because most other operatives would be left floundering when tossed into a completely unfamiliar situation with little or no time to prepare. Kepler thrives on the challenge. </p><p>"I mean it, Major." Maxwell sits up straight, squares her shoulders. "I think I'm ready for more responsibilities and possibly room for upward mobility in the company. Specifically, more involvement in the intelligence division field assignments?"</p><p>"Jacobi told you about the end-of-year bonus for SI field work."</p><p>"Mm-hm. I want in."</p><p>Raking his nails across his scalp, Kepler brushes his hair out of his eyes and looks balefully at her. "You know we call it the 'close-call bonus'," he says, "and occasionally the 'life insurance payout bonus'. It means you might die."</p><p>"I know the risks."</p><p>"If you want a raise, you should take Miss Young up on her offer."</p><p>"It's not about the money."</p><p>Kepler tilts his head. "What's it about?"</p><p>"I like this. I like being in the field, when I get to do it. Even that time we got shot down and stranded on a deserted tropical island." <em>Especially</em> that time they got shot down and stranded on a deserted tropical island.</p><p>"Yeah, Mr. Cutter wasn't happy about nearly losing one of his best developers to a helicopter crash."</p><p>"I don't think it's fair to shut me out of field assignments," Maxwell shoots back, "just because you're afraid that Mr. Cutter will bite your head off if something happens to me."</p><p>Kepler narrows his eyes. "You want to rephrase that."</p><p><em>Oops.</em> "I want to be in the field with you and Jacobi. I like knowing what goes on behind the scenes, and I like being part of the reason Goddard Futuristics is on the bleeding edge of every kind of technological advance of the last two decades." At the skeptical quirk of his brow, Maxwell decides that only the big guns will do against Warren Kepler. She bites her lip, clenches her hands on her knees and looks down at them, wringing his oversized gloves. "And I don't want to just sit in a room twenty or a hundred or a thousand miles away where I can't do anything if one of you gets hurt."</p><p>She sneaks a glance at his face, the mix of surprise and warmth softening his features for about two seconds before he schools the expression away and replaces it with an indulgent one. "I will take it into consideration," says Kepler, "next time I put together a team." </p><p>"Thank you," Maxwell says. "You won't regret it."</p><p>"In the meantime, I need you to take a look at this chart." He balances the laptop back over his legs, tapping a few keys to bring up the building's ventilation system mapped onto a spreadsheet, labeled and color-coded. "Trying to work out the best distribution points for the anti-viral."</p><p>"I love your charts," she murmurs, leaning over his arm to take the computer. "People don't usually make visualizations this functional."</p><p>"I just think," he says, "we should use the software to its fullest potential."</p><p>Maxwell looks up from the screen, grinning, and holds her hand out for a high-five. "Spreadsheet gang!"</p>
<hr/><p>The morning after, Kepler's not surprised to wake up with Jacobi's nose tucked against the nape of his neck. They'd fallen asleep on a tiny, twin-sized mattress back-to-back, both of them trying not to slide off the edge, and sometime in the night, Jacobi had turned over and squeezed in close. They'd even (obliquely) acknowledged the possibility before they both crashed, Jacobi taking the spot closer to the wall with an easy 'I don't have a problem with it if you don't have a problem with it'. </p><p>He can't imagine either of them had a very comfortable sleep anyway, still in tactical pants, sans utility belts and holsters. They'd piled under one relatively light sleeping bag still bundled in their jackets. It's almost a shame to pull away from the warmth at his back, but Kepler gently removes Jacobi's hand from his chest and extricates himself to sit upright on the edge of the air mattress. </p><p>The cold raises goosebumps on his arms, his nose and ears aching from it despite how far he'd pulled up the sleeping bag the night before. The rest of him is fine, for the most part-- joints stiff but not painfully so, his hair a tousled mess after two nights without a new application of styling wax, stubble dark on his chin and upper lip. They'd turned up a bottle of mouthwash the night before, but it didn't do anything for his breath first thing in the morning. Kepler checks his phone, dismissing the alarm before it can ring and wake up the rest of the room.</p><p>Jacobi lets out a groan, shifting into the empty space Kepler had left. His voice is warm as he reaches out and hooks a finger into Kepler's waistband. "Babe," he grumbles, tugging lightly. "Get back in."</p><p>Two things occur to Kepler right then. The first: <em>Jacobi calls him 'babe'?</em> The second: <em>This is hilarious</em>. Kepler sweetens his voice, pitches it higher, cloying. It's a little mean, but Jacobi's usually the one who gets a sarcastic quip in first. "Just a second," he croons, and just for good measure throws in a, "honey."</p><p>Jacobi cracks his eyes open. After a moment, he snatches his hand back, scrambling to sit up. "Shit," he hisses, "Major Kepler, geez."</p><p>The look of <em>actual</em> distress on his subordinate's face very quickly douses the quip, which Kepler'd thought was kind of clever, in cold water. "Jacobi?"</p><p>"I'm uh, sorry, sir, I didn't mean to--" Jacobi digs the heel of his palm into his eyes, shaking his head as if he were hoping that he's just stuck in a nightmare. "I thought you were someone else."</p><p>"It's alright." Part of Kepler wants to launch into a story to diffuse the situation. He decides against it after a moment, the panicked look on Jacobi's face effectively ruining his joking mood. "Don't worry about it."</p><p>"Major, it was--"</p><p>Kepler stands, stretching his arms and shoulders. "It's fine, Jacobi."</p><p>"I seriously wasn't trying to, y'know, cop a feel or anything." Jacobi drops his gaze, shoulders hunched. "Klein stays over sometimes and--"</p><p>"Mr. Jacobi," Kepler interrupts, having taken waking up with his subordinate wrapped around much better than this uncharacteristic awkwardness, "we've got a lot of work to do. Let's gear up."</p>
<hr/><p>Maxwell gets him alone eventually, volunteering to watch the sonicator baths while everyone else breaks for lunch and hinting very strongly that Jacobi should stay and keep her company. She is, unfortunately for him, simultaneously observant and tactless, and Jacobi catches the meaningful look she exchanges with Kepler as she pushes the Major out the door to join the scientists. It doesn't take much to get the story from Jacobi, efficiently pried from him with a comment about how <em>quiet</em> he's been.</p><p>"You did what?" Maxwell says around her packet of energy gel. She chews on the side she'd snipped the corner off of, visibly trying not to laugh at him. For someone who usually knows Kepler so well, and who'd had a frankly pretty funny exchange with him, Jacobi's worked up about it in a way she hadn't really expected. It sounded like a joke when he first spilled the beans. </p><p>"Spooned him," he says.</p><p>"Okay, and?" Maxwell holds up one of her hands, still gloved, and wiggles her fingers. "It was cold."</p><p>Jacobi's shoulders are hunched inside his jacket, boots scuffing the floor as he paces around the lab. "I probably weirded him out. What if he wants to transfer me?"</p><p>"He won't." Maxwell chooses not to point out that Jacobi's awfully indiscreet about how much attention he pays to Kepler in particular, and how little their CO had allowed that to affect their professional dynamic. That would entail a conversation Maxwell has no intention of learning to navigate with the threat of zombie infection and-or remotely activated building collapse hanging over their heads. "I think you're reading into it too much," she adds.</p><p>Jacobi pauses, hands shoved deep in his pockets as he gives her a skeptical look. "How do you know that?"</p><p>"Honestly, Daniel? He thinks it's funny when we do stupid stuff in our sleep." </p><p>He makes a face at her. "<em>What</em> stupid stuff?"</p><p>"You sleep-talk sometimes," Maxwell tells him, "when you're not snoring."</p><p>"I don't sleep-talk."</p><p>"You definitely sleep-talk."</p><p>"Well," Jacobi says after a moment of staring intently and waiting for her to tell him she's joking (she does not do that), "that sounds like a potential security hazard."</p><p>"Sure," Maxwell answers, "but all you do is mumble the words to 99 Luftballons when you're under a lot of stress."</p><p>"I don't even know the words to 99 Luftballoons."</p><p>"You might just be repeating the words '99 Luftballoons', I assumed that's all the lyrics."</p><p>"Alana," Jacobi says, throwing his hands up, "that's not the point!"</p><p>Maxwell raises her voice to match, an exasperated, "What <em>is</em> your point?"</p><p>"It feels kinda awkward with us now, is all."</p><p>"Why would an innocent mistake change anything? Do you think he's suddenly gonna have a problem with you after years of working together?" She gives him a sympathetic look. Any other day, any other situation, and Jacobi would laugh it off, take Kepler's joke and run it into the ground. "Or are you hoping he'll realize he's secretly been harboring feelings for you this whole time?"</p><p>"Don't even joke." Daniel rubs his face. "He smelled nice."</p><p>"None of us have showered in two days," Maxwell says. "That's the problem, isn't it? This whole song and dance is very... asymptotic."</p><p>"What?"</p><p>"The line continually approaches a given curve but never meets it at a finite distance."</p><p>Jacobi buries his face in his hands. "I know what an asymptote is."</p><p>"He'll be a professional about it, Daniel." Maxwell squeezes out the last of her grape-flavored energy gel and rolls up the empty container to dunk in the trash. Kepler had tossed it at her earlier with a warning not to contaminate any samples. "So will you. And once this is over and all your confusing adrenaline-fueled feelings calm down, you'll go home and have a nice dinner with a nice man who's never threatened to dismember anyone. That we know of."</p><p>"I kinda remember you being a little into that," Jacobi shoots back, looking at her sideways. "When that skinhead wouldn't leave you alone and he was like--"</p><p>She knows that he's... pushing back. Lashing out. Deflecting attention away from himself and onto Maxwell-and-Kepler instead. She's not new to the team and hasn't been for a while, so it doesn't work.  "We're not talking about me," she says.</p><p>"You were all," says Jacobi, sneering a bit as he steps in close, "'No one's ever stood up for me like that, <em>especially</em> not my family--'"</p><p>Maxwell jabs her fingers into his ribs, showing him her teeth when he doubles over. "I understand <em>professional boundaries</em>," she hisses, "and I didn't tell him to <em>get back in</em> when he got out of bed this morning."</p><p>Mulling that over, Jacobi comes to the conclusion that Maxwell has the upper hand in this conversation, and there's no way for him to take it from her. Besides, she's never let 'that was a nice thing an attractive man who is my friend and mentor and partner did for me' bleed into actually <em>being</em> attracted to that particular man. "It'll be over soon," he concedes, and apologetically offers her the unopened pouch of his own energy gel.</p><p>"Don't read into it," she warns, one last time, before taking it.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jacobi tries not to read into it but Kepler, who's usually comfortable throwing an arm around his neck, clapping him on the back, or grabbing him and shaking him by the shoulder, stops doing any of that. Under normal circumstances additional stress means <em>more</em> casual touching (something Daniel's always acutely aware of), and though he doesn't seem to be acting too differently around Maxwell, Kepler keeps his distance from Jacobi. </p><p>A panel of Kepler, Maxwell, Young, Thomson and Jacobi had eventually decided on canisters planted at specific points throughout the ventilation system, to be detonated simultaneously. Maxwell and Young are tasked with handling everything aboveground; Jacobi and Kepler everything below, where the vents are roomier. As much as he may be trying to avoid Jacobi, Kepler's never put his personal issues ahead of mission success and he hadn't hesitated to pick Jacobi as his point man. </p><p>They take the elevator back to the top floor, Jacobi stopping it there with his jury-rigged wires in lieu of actually repairing the button panel. Kepler laces his fingers together, allowing Rachel Young to use his hands as a step to pull herself through the ceiling hatch. Maxwell, several inches shorter than Young, has to do that <em>and</em> clamber onto his shoulders, one hand on top of his head for leverage, before she can reach the opening and haul herself up. He passes her the pack full of anti-viral canisters, and brushes his palms against the leg of his pants as Young and Maxwell disappear into the vents.</p><p>Jacobi waits for the all-clear from Young, and when she finally gives it he heaves a sigh and meets eyes with Kepler. "Hey, boss," he says, disabling his coms as the major smooths his hair back into a semblance of order, "you got a minute?"</p><p>Kepler takes his earpiece out, closing his fist around it to properly muffle their voices and gesturing for Daniel to do the same. There's a good chance the elevator is bugged <em>anyway</em>, but at the very least, they can make it difficult for command to listen in on every conversation. "Problem?" he asks.</p><p>"No," Jacobi says immediately. Then, "I mean, I hope not."</p><p>"Spit it out, Jacobi."</p><p>"Are we okay?"</p><p>Kepler furrows his brows. "Any reason we shouldn't be?"</p><p>"If I made you uncomfortable earlier," Jacobi says, but he cuts himself off when Kepler puts up a hand to stop him. </p><p>"Mr. Jacobi," Kepler snaps, "if I had an issue with you, you would know." That, at least, is true. Kepler never hesitates to rip into his subordinates for screwing up, or for conduct he decides is unbecoming of their positions. "If there's anything you feel the need to discuss further," he continues, firm, "save it for when we're back in Florida and have a good night's sleep behind us."</p><p>The shutdown isn't new; it <em>is</em> a pretty awkward time to be having this conversation. Jacobi's not about to let the momentary awkwardness affect his performance in the field and Kepler <em>definitely</em> won't. "Yes sir," he answers quickly.</p><p>As if sensing his lingering doubt, Kepler huffs. "And look," he adds, deliberately slow, "if you're gonna have issues with Klein over what happened, send him my way and I'll set things straight. If he won't take your word for it that nothing has been or will be inappropriate between us, he can have mine."</p><p>Jacobi scrunches his nose. "Were you--" he starts, then tries again. "You were acting weird over <em>that</em>?"</p><p>"Acting weird?"</p><p>"Avoiding me?"</p><p>Kepler's hackles rise immediately at the implication that he's doing something that isn't 'Dealing With A Problem In The Most Efficient And Perfect Way.' "I'm not <em>avoiding</em> you," he growls. Except, he seems to acknowledge to himself, he definitely is, and Kepler takes a moment to weigh his next words carefully. "It's hard enough to have a personal life," he says at last, "working in intelligence. I don't want to make it any harder."</p><p>There's some truth to that, Jacobi supposes; SI operatives aren't known for their healthy, long-term, or committed relationships. It's a high-pressure job with extended away missions, deep and intimate bonds with fellow operatives whose lives are always in each other's hands. Normal relationships outside of that context are routinely neglected to the point they fall apart, Jacobi's included. </p><p>He'd been doing well with Klein, though. That counts for something.</p><p>"I'm uh, definitely not gonna give him every detail about what we do in the field." Besides, Klein's an air force man himself, he's definitely cuddled up to other guys on long overnight assignments before. They both have people in their lives who are closer, more trusted, more important than each other-- at least for now. "Most of this is classified anyway."</p><p>Kepler presses his lips together, his expression momentarily disapproving. Then he seems to think it over, decide that whatever life advice he was about to dispense isn't going to make their assignment any easier, and shrugs. "Alright then," he says, evidently coming to the conclusion that Jacobi's an adult who can make his own bad decisions about his personal relationships. "Let's go."</p><p>For the five years or so that Daniel has known him, Kepler hadn't so much as been on a date. Not a real one, anyway, though technically he's taken plenty of marks out for dinner and up to a staged apartment or hotel room for coffee and-- other things. He's certainly been on several missions that involve courting a person over days or weeks to gain their confidence. </p><p>But he'd told Jacobi once that there were <em>people he wanted to be with</em>, and Daniel imagines that the Kepler who's an extraordinary commander and co-worker and even occasionally friend might have been, at one time in his life, a great partner to someone he'll never see again. Maybe he's got some good advice on that front.</p><p>Not that it'll do either of them much good now. </p><p>Still, Kepler claps him roughly on the shoulder, gripping the material of his jacket the way he always does, and shakes him. "Sub-8," he says, "Mr. Jacobi."</p>
<hr/><p>The anti-viral gas takes two hours to disperse and take effect, during which time Kepler coordinates the cleanup and Young types up their report. Cutter had dispatched a crew and held them on standby not long after Jacobi and Maxwell touched down, and the group makes its way out of the building to meet them at the front door of the facility. Kepler dismisses Jacobi and Maxwell, sending them with a kid from the local support team to the rented house he's been staying in, and heads back inside to brief the incoming team. </p><p>They pull up to a relatively small two-bedroom house in the suburbs about ten minutes away from the facility. Jacobi and Maxwell trudge into the house, a building that's outwardly cozy but practically bristling with security. There's a handprint scanner at the door, which allows them in, and cameras discreetly tucked in the eaves. </p><p>The two bedrooms each have an en-suite bathroom, a queen-sized bed, a desk, a dresser and a closet-- clean and modern, just the way Kepler likes it. Both have clearly been staked, which comes as a surprise to both Jacobi and Maxwell. Kepler hadn't mentioned sharing a living space with Young, although he's also not the type to give extraneous details about his ongoing missions, even to complain about them. All things considered, Kepler and Young probably arrived at the house and shut themselves into their respective rooms.</p><p>Everything is spotless, as expected from two intelligence operatives, but Alana sticks her head into each bedroom, sniffs once, and then directs them toward Kepler's. "He has a very distinctive cologne," she tells Daniel, dropping her bag by the door and rummaging through it for her laptop. "You should take first shower."</p><p>Jacobi gives her an unintelligible grumble in response, then a double-take when he realizes that they'd left their supplies at the facility in their rush to get away from the labs. He goes to Kepler's dresser instead, pulling two pairs each of trunks, sweatpants, and solid black t-shirts for them to change into afterwards. </p><p>Maxwell looks at him nervously when Jacobi tosses her the set, but seems to ease up when Daniel just shuffles to the bathroom, shedding his clothes as he goes. She's been on the team for three years now and on overnight missions with Kepler before, but freely going though his belongings is something she still hasn't worked up the nerve to do. But if anyone knows Kepler-- knows which buttons they're allowed to push, and what liberties they're allowed to take-- it's Jacobi.</p><p>At least the house is well equipped for extra occupants, with clean towels to spare. No doubt something Kepler had made sure of in the week or so he's spent in Arkansas. </p><p>Jacobi finishes his shower in about ten minutes, drying off and crawling under the bedcovers with a loud, relieved groan. He's got one eye half-open, following Maxwell's figure as she ducks into the bathroom for a shower of her own. </p><p>Under normal circumstances, Maxwell would probably spend a few hours decompressing on her laptop after she's cleaned up, but she'd slept fitfully the night before (as they all did), and worked through the day. Now, with the sun setting and the view outside their window awash in soft orange light, Jacobi looking very cozy under the mess of blankets he'd made of Kepler's bed, she burrows into the sheets next to him. </p><p>It's only fully settled in that the weight of the day seems to seep into her bones. Her neck and shoulders and soles are sore from having spent the last ten hours on her feet, her head heavy and still damp from her shower. Her hair will be a mess when she wakes up, but Maxwell decides that's a problem for future Alana as she closes her eyes.</p>
<hr/><p>Kepler and Young arrive well after midnight, in Kepler's car. He'd insisted on stopping by a barbecue joint to pick up enough babyback ribs, brisket, coleslaw, cornbread and baked beans for about half a dozen people, which Rachel would have personally considered excessive. Two minutes into their drive back to home base, though, the smoky, sweet aroma of Arkansas barbecue had overtaken her senses and she's digging through the bag for something to eat.</p><p>"Top one," Kepler tells her, looking amused as she turns up the one covered styrofoam tray containing samples of everything, and a plastic fork. As if he knew that she'd be hungry and also unwilling to eat with his team. She digs in, not-at-all elegantly tearing into a rib. </p><p>Kepler's stomach audibly growls as he steps out of the car, barbecue stacked in his arms and the duffel bag Jacobi had left in the labs slung over one shoulder. Young lets them both into the house while his hands are full, one small courtesy in return for food. She heads back to her room without a word with her barbecue and locks the door behind her, both of them having exhausted their quota of exposure to each other over the last two days. </p><p>Jacobi and Maxwell shuffle out of his room at the sound of Kepler's arrival, both of them scrubbing sleep out of their eyes, in matching sets of his clothes.</p><p>"We borrowed it," Jacobi tells him at the pointed arch of his brows, looking deeply unapologetic, and Maxwell eyes him warily until Kepler sets his haul on the dining room table. </p><p>It's a testament to his exhaustion that he doesn't respond to that, and instead gently lobs Jacobi's duffel bag to him. "I assume," he says, "you two haven't eaten yet." Kepler reaches into a brown paper bag and takes a serving of cornbread from it, eating it in two bites as he heads for his bedroom. </p><p>Jacobi and Maxwell brush past him toward the food, Jacobi bumping him on the shoulder and Maxwell lightly touching his elbow. They hear the shower running before long, and settle in to help themselves.</p><p>The food is still hot, and they open each container for meat and sides. Jacobi makes an extra plate and covers it with some plastic wrap he turned up in a cabinet, setting it aside so Kepler won't make faces at him about the wreckage he and Maxwell are about to make of their food.</p><p>They're so involved with eating barbecue that they don't register Kepler's absence until Jacobi slumps back in his seat, internally thankful for the elastic waistband of Kepler's sweatpants. The shower isn't running anymore, the only sound of water from Maxwell as she washes her hands at the sink and splashes some of that water on her face, as if she'd just run a sprint instead of eaten a meal. </p><p>"Did Kepler already eat?" Maxwell asks, looking around curiously. </p><p>"Doubt it," says Jacobi, recalling the way he'd demolished that cornbread.</p><p>Still, for all that he says they need to have <em>professional boundaries</em> and keeps his distance from them, Kepler rarely misses an opportunity to have a meal together. Jacobi eyes the plate he'd set aside for Kepler and helps Maxwell pack away their leftovers. Kepler's portion is lukewarm by now, and Jacobi pops it into the fridge to hold while he heads for the room to check on their CO. </p><p>The lights are still on, and for a moment Jacobi's sure that Kepler's reading something off his phone, but at a closer look he notes that Kepler's arm is lax against the mattress, his phone still in his hand but loosely held. He's taken the time to shave two and a half days' worth of stubble off his chin, but his hair is still damp, falling into his closed eyes and dripping onto the towel he'd primly laid over his pillowcase. He hadn't bothered to put on a shirt, either, a clean one laid out beside him on the sheets as if he'd planned to come back to it but couldn't keep his eyes open long enough to follow through.</p><p>Even asleep, there's a furrow between Kepler's brows. He's only half-under the blanket, bed still unmade after Jacobi and Maxwell had slept in it.</p><p>Maxwell joins Jacobi after a few seconds, pausing in the doorway with him to take in the sight. "Couch?" she says, jerking her head toward the living room, and the sofa that pulls out into a full-sized bed.</p><p>"Sure," Daniel replies, and they move as one to fetch pillows and blankets. Maxwell turns off the light and locks the door behind her, once they've retrieved the bedding and brushed their teeth.</p><p>It's a rare treat to see Kepler asleep-- like glimpsing a large cat napping in the wild. Any move to touch him, even to pull the blanket more fully over him, would ruin the opportunity and he'll be on his guard for weeks after, careful not to let it happen again. As if spooked at the thought that someone might be able to do something to or near him without his knowledge. </p><p>He'd kneecap Jacobi for even implying that. But Kepler'd sent them ahead to a cozy house for a shower and a nap while he stayed behind to coordinate cleanup, and he took a detour to bring them specialty Arkansas barbecue for when they woke up, a meal he didn't have the chance yet to eat himself. </p><p>Jacobi yawns, reaching across the couch to tap Maxwell on the shoulder and squeeze it. She pats the back of his hand in return, letting out a contented hum. Silently, he wishes Kepler a deep and dreamless sleep; he needs it.</p><p>And maybe in the morning, Kepler will unlock his door and shuffle to the living room to find his two subordinates who'd flown eight hundred miles to join him for two days in an infested building asleep beside each other on the couch, and a plate in the fridge already piled high with barbecue, ready to reheat.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey, thanks for reading!! Hope you enjoyed! And if you like Wolf 359, great story &amp; character analysis, other LSSP podcasts and regular movie nights, check out The Hephaestus server <a href="https://discord.gg/udwcn2wyQ8">here</a>!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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